Paper Tiger, Paper Swords
by MatchstickAmmonite
Summary: In a second war against Thanos, the fate of the universe dangles in the hands of a criminal mastermind. *Novel-length fic written as an actual book. Picks up immediately before the end of T:TDW. POV First Person (Loki). Slight AU for worldbuilding details. Slight canon divergence in backstory-Thor et al have broken Loki out early using different leverage. Frigga is alive. F/M, M/M
1. Eulogy

Preamble

A lie, an absent musing, and some thoughts.

* * *

Like any good sabotage, staging one's own defeat offers two unique advantages. In the case of self-annihilation: one, that most people are disinclined to believe anyone lacks enough self-esteem to rig their own humiliation—good for me, I suppose—and two, that since adopting this tactic as my primary weapon, I have never met anyone able to look up from reveling in my defeat long enough to see the ruse.

To succeed in this ploy one has to know either what their target hates or what their target wants most in all the world. When you dangle hate or love in front of someone, they tend to lose all sense of clarity.

Agent Romanoff made a prime target, because I have known women like her—Sif comes to mind foremost—or myself, as it happens, when I am female—so this gave me insight into what lies I needed to weave around her head.

_Mewling quim_.

_A pretty balm for after my torture_.

_A patronizing supposition that she, being a woman, must therefore be in love with her male counterpart._

_Being a woman, her nature is of course soft and she must be aghast at the blood on her hands._

You see what I mean?

Romanoff, used to misogynistic male-shaped enemies, was only too happy to help me carry out my self-defeat. When the game ended, she walked away with the idea that I meant to use Banner against them and, meanwhile, I kept them from finding the tracking beacon her un-beloved Agent Barton sewed into my shirt hem.

Doing this has another advantage. 'What advantage?' I hear you not asking. Well, beyond sabotage's inherently simple children Disbelief and Misdirection, by giving up information through trickery I didn't have to withstand torture at the hands of a people who couldn't regenerate my body overnight.

Sabotage—sabotaging myself, better—works when other tactics do not.

Are you horrified yet?

From the moment Thor snuck into Asgard's dungeon to see me, I knew his ultimatum would end with my defeat. Only someone like Thor would try to recruit a prisoner by telling said prisoner their assistance would merely land him back in his cell. Hmm . . .

Difficult choice, there. Thank you, brother. Let me think on that. Shall I rescue my captors from an approaching enemy who might well set me free, or should I do Asgard a favor for the pleasure of spending the next four thousand years in prison? The mind, as they say, boggles. Really.

What could possibly have been going on in Thor's head? A bizarre, infantile desire not to _trick_ dear Loki? A puerile need to be honest? A fear that hiding this informational tidbit might give poor, naive Loki false hope doomed to be ripped apart when the truth came out that I should be re-imprisoned? Despite Thor and his idiot friends' threats against betraying their cause, from the moment I agreed to the plan I knew the mission had to end with my heroic death. If I didn't want to face either a long life enduring soul-crushing boredom in prison or a short, panicky life on the run, Thor must live and I could not. And Thor—honestly, if Thor didn't deserve to walk straight into a ploy, the cosmos might as well open up under my damned feet and suck me back into the Void.

The last time I meant to ever see the great Thor Odinson came with me humiliated—again—on purpose. Flat on my back, curled up in Thor's embrace, dying from a make-believe poisoned wound that left me with the inexplicable ability to talk despite getting one through the chest. Hating Thor, I played my part with my best so that I could give Thor everything he wanted.

What did I say about hate and love? Here we go again:

I fed him the belief that I still loved him. I surrendered to my rightful place as the younger, unwanted brother who should give his life for the Crown Prince. I gave him a gratifying conclusion, cut no doubt from his darkest inmost hope, that I would just die with whatever honor I had left and leave him and his mother and father alone to go on with their better lives.

Thor and Jane were in a bit of a hurry, so I waited until the Convergence began to risk moving from my unconsecrated site. Give them time to find an opening . . . to, I'll admit, one of only three possible realms.

Asgard, Midgard, Vanaheim. Anywhere else and they could have fun creeping above a drop into either prison or death. Odin-King's empire is not the placid empire helmed by his fathers.

Funny, that. You'd think with a name like Allfather, Odin-King would be . . . I don't know . . . more _father_ to the Nine Realms. Or something. Maybe that's just my own literal interpretation.

Then again, with a name like Liesmith perhaps it's my right to be judgmental. But that's just me. He's got the crown, after all. I don't have a crown.

But that's just me.

* * *

Chapter 1:

In which I learn that giving one's own eulogy is not all it's cracked up to be. Also, someone is causing trouble on Vorsgard and Thor gives me a present.

* * *

My funeral is not the grand affair one might hope if one were given to this sort of morbid daydreaming. The flowers are nice, and the sunset blazing hot red across the water is a suitably poetic cliché, and there are actually people in the crowd who aren't royal guards. But the banks are sparse, and the flowers aren't really fitting for a villain's pyre. The black stink coming from my boat overwhelms Frigga's spicy perfume although she's standing next to me. Next to _Odin _who is me. Frigga's mouth is a somber thin line. She is impossibly far away from my reach, even at my side, as we watch me burn. She won't cry. She looks serene.

For all the stench, the flames are beautiful. Red-gold roaring curtains engulf my body—well, sort of my body—in a warm spectral glow. I am cauterized from the Nine Realms.

I am vanished in light.

In truth, I feel less the vindictive sneak watching the proceedings and more a ghost witnessing his last ties to identity—however distasteful that identity might be—go up in flames. I am . . . Loki who is Odin-King who is watching a boat carrying Loki who is dead drift down a river to the end of the world. I am not any person anymore. I am a shadow under a mask.

This close to the pyre boat, I can see through the licking flames that someone has brushed the corpse's hair and painted the dark gray bruises from its skin with colored creams. My face—well, not _my_ face—is ghoulish for its unnatural serenity. An imaginary death-by-poison left imaginary defects, since blotted out as if the fight never really happened. As if I fell asleep in my royal regalia and died. The creams are a petty illusion—no glamors for the dead; oh, no. We must face our ancestors as we are. Well, except for the creams. And, well, the fact that the corpse isn't actually me. But then again the ancestors we're sending him to aren't actually my ancestors, so maybe that's all right.

My skin itches. The mummified cleanness separates me from the thing in the boat, but I still don't want to see the disintegrating face attached to that effigy. I don't want to see the pristine sword clasped in my dead pale hands. (Who's sword _is _that, by the way? How did that conversation even go? "Ho there, fair citizen! Say, may I have your sword so we can burn it with the Crown Prince's younger brother? It's either that or his books—wasn't much of a warrior, you see, this man we're burning as a warrior.") I'm afraid that if I see me burning the prickly energy slithering up my chest will go through an alchemical shift when it hits my skull to become manic euphoria, which will make me laugh. I can't laugh at my funeral while I'm wearing Odin's face. The Allfather might not be much of mine, but he'll raise a court riot smirking at his son's death. I can't even _smile_. If I _don't _smile, the prickling will turn to a black hole instead—it's either flying free while laughing at what I've got or sinking into mire remembering what I've lost, and I'm not going to weep at my own funeral.

I am free. I am unburdened. I am avenged. I am vanished in light.

A lie is only a different kind of truth, after all.

Thor looks less happy about all this than I am, standing on my immediate right—my right-hand, _my_ second-in-command, _my_ heir—with a chiseled blank shadow across his face. His arms are stiff at his sides. His eyes are locked on the receding pyre boat, to the point that he doesn't deign to look at me although I'm sure he can feel me look at him. I wonder if he gave me that sword.

No, best not consider that.

The boat burns. The magic which is supposed to simulate a soul released to the glorious afterlife triggers on schedule; swirling blue sparks lift while, below, the boat and corpse sail on from the rimfall's edge into space. For the impressionable in the crowd this is supposed to signify that I have redeemed myself in death and been lifted up into eternity. For _Thor_, though . . . I wonder if he's remembering the day I showed him how the trick is done and we took turns immortalizing a toy boat, a fishing float, a dead bird, his left dress boot, and most of our picnic lunch.

Best not think about that either.

I risk a second glance in his direction and the expression on his face twists my stomach. From anyone else I would be comfortable knowing that expression is a mask; Thor doesn't wear masks. It's this as well as his short-sighted honorlust that will make him a terrible king.

I want him to be a terrible king. When I quit the Golden City tonight I want solace in knowing that I will have left them to ruin under a king who thinks leadership means hitting harder than the other fellow.

My skin burns. Hate is a good armor. Hate is an armor made from poisoned thorns, but it's better than no armor at all. Hatred, at least, gives my poison a direction.

Thor watches my pyre until boat and make-believe passenger are fallen into the mists below.

There is a feast afterward. We walk in procession up the glittering silver shoreline with smoke and ash trailing us in a summer breeze. The husks of funeral lanterns are left to swirl in wake in the water, where they will gleam along with the dock's braziers throughout the night until tomorrow morning. No one carries a spirit-globe. Those vibrant glowing spheres are released to join the departed as blessings in Valhalla only in the event that the dead deserve them.

Frigga's deep blue gown cuts a shadow in the growing dark, stark and grave against the shining city. Beside _her_ now, Thor walks with his head bowed while his astrium dress armor winks with undiminishable light. They are joined in muffled silence, mother and son. I am no longer a part of their lives. Odin-King, whose face I wear, is somehow removed from this tie as well. I don't know if they have pushed him—me—aside, or if _I_ have pushed _them_. I don't want to be part of this tapestry that will grow between them following my death. Their threads will go on: mingling, changing, growing. Mine stops short. For my own sake I know I can't be part of their new pattern. I can never weave back in as a scribe with a pretend face or—Nine Godless Realms forbid—stay on as a father and abjectly-celibate husband.

Do that, and I am finished.

Are they glad? They aren't now. They will be.

The palace looms like a gate between worlds, reflecting red against a purpling star-smeared sky. There are long banners shrouding the royal hall, which blazes with a primal chemical heat from one thousand black iron braziers. There are meats, stews, baked bread and blackened bread, tarts and spices and drinks from four different realms, edible decorations, and dancers wearing nothing but gold and magic fire. I ordered this because Odin-King would order it—personally, I'd have preferred to spend the evening thumbing my nose at the warrior's funeral on the balcony of my old suite, with nobody to bother me and the latest thaumatergical journal from Alfheim. That wasn't exactly a option for the after-party, though. _Let's all go to Loki's room and take turns sitting on his balcony reading whatever he's left lying around. He won't mind._

Odin's court sits and Frigga sits and Thor sits once more on my right; I remain standing. All eyes are on me and there is a warm surge at being the hall's center. The last time I stood in this hall I was in chains. Now, I am the High King of Yggdrasil.

Odin's giant ravens flap down to join us—they are illusions, too—and their wingbeats flay the air as they circle to perch beside the throne.

_My_ throne. My throne, above my high table.

The room hums with coiled energy. Every soul is focused on _me_, waiting to hear what _I_ have to say. Everyone is silent: Odin's advisers, the proud warrior's council with their crimson capes, the court sorceresses, the lovely noble families in their bright astrium and lavish silks, the lofty stewards and attendants and palace guards . . . and Thor's idiot friends, who watch their ringleader like attentive hounds, trying to pretend they're sorry to see me dead.

This is the last time I will ever see them. Any of them.

What the hell. Let's send me off with a feast.

"Loki," I say at last into that glorious silence, and my words are heavy with grief that is a mask within a mask, "was many things in life, but perhaps never what he wished to be." I say it because this is what Odin would say. Easier if I could play-act Odin's shame rather than his summary. I would rather tear myself separate from my words by attacking me, but now isn't the time for shame. I can't hide in lies. What he knew about me Frigga would know—and I would rather eulogize myself than listen to what Frigga or Thor might have to say.

This is what Odin would tell his gleaming, golden court:

"Loki looked up to his brother the Crown Prince. Despite a preference for studying his books over swinging a sword, he was always quick to follow Thor whenever my older son proposed some ill-conceived adventure that inevitably led the two of them into battle. I cannot fail to remember a time when my sons were off writing their destinies across the Nine Realms. Although in the end he set himself as the enemy of Asgard perhaps it is fitting, then, that it was through his brother the Crown Prince that Loki found redemption. Loki died with blade in hand, fighting to defend Asgard's future king. It is for this reason that he sups with my father tonight. Let us join their feast of honor here. May our ancestors ever lead us onward into glory, for surely even Loki Odinson found his in remembering his family. We will remember him in turn."

I pick up Odin's golden goblet and drink his fine sweet wine. The court follows suit. Frigga squeezes the fingers of my free hand. Then there is food and music, so I don't have to talk to the people beside me.

I am grateful when Svaldir Eimrson approaches the high table to beg my ear.

"Speak, councilor," I say in a low voice. Thor has wandered off for the moment; he wanted air, I think, and I'm not feeling well enough to have Frigga join us. Frigga, who is supposed to be my wife.

"Allfather." Svaldir bows and he, also, seems to have a mind for the discreet as the bow is short to the point of awkward. As the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs, Svaldir is a barrel-chested man with a booming voice and grandfatherly demeanor. He is usually the one to begin a council meeting by dryly announcing his fellows' names, as if a hammer-hard reminder about their proud heritage will force them to act like adults. It's disconcerting having the old man creep up to me during my own funeral feast liked a kicked apprentice.

"Speak _freely_, councilor. My son will not emerge from beyond the flames if we forsake our duties this one night."

Svaldir jerks a second bow, eyes low for my sake. My-Loki, not my-Odin-King. I knew there was a reason I liked him.

"I am sorry to bother your majesty," he murmurs. The councilor glances around me, but Frigga does not look up. "There has been an incident in the Red Tower. We have lost contact with our outpost on Vorsgard."

"Can you not have one of our sorceresses fix the connection?" Odin would preamble with Would you bother me with this? but I haven't the heart to do it. As the younger son I have only gotten a chance to preside over court once before, as Prince Regent who-is-called-King-in-his-father's-stead, so I'm not about to scoff this opportunity for all its brevity and ill-timing. "Ilda perhaps. She enjoys working with long-distance pararealm projections."

From the way his eyes dart again toward Frigga and his mouth pulls back in a self-deprecating frown, I can tell this is not the answer he wanted to hear.

"No, sir," Svaldir says. "I'm afraid I have not made myself clear. The trouble is not the connection. The trouble is on Vorsgard. No one at the outpost has responded to our demand for a report."

Heat sizzles in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut. The news _is_ serious enough to bother a king at his son's funeral, but _of course_ even my death is less important than whatever mischief other people are causing. Of _course _they had to pick today of all days for—for—

"What does Heimdall have to say?" I demand. "Has this been brought to his attention? Has he seen what the trouble is?"

Svaldir is shaking his head. "The old enchantments were never stripped from the citystates after Vorsgard was abandoned. Heimdall cannot see any of what goes on inside the wards."

Of course not. Odin-King wouldn't waste resources stripping wards from a dead planet.

"Send a small containment force," I say. "Have Ilda go with them. If the trouble is communication she will resolve the issue. If not, I want the traitors brought back to Asgard for public execution. There will be no second colony on Vorsgard."

Svaldir slaps his ribcage with a fist and bows himself away.

Frigga touches my arm in gentle inquiry. I haven't the strength to take her hand, but neither do I flinch from her.

I do not like causing Frigga pain.

"A small matter," I say, joining her cover in trying to memorize the whirling, fire-clad performers. Better that than speaking to each other. "Of little import."

We keep our silence and our masks intact. Thor does not reappear until the night has wound to a drunken, sloppy orgy that has nothing to do with me at all: people shouting oaths at each other, scraping out from the desecrated tables to back up oaths with fists or weaponry, laughing, spilling or stealing drinks as they break away in groups to carry on with their lives. The dancers are long gone. Frigga has retired to bed. I don't know what I'm waiting for in watching my name be forgotten—nobody knows I'm here, nobody will stagger up to me this late in the night to say, Ah-ho, your royal majesty, I didn't want to wander off without confessing that I loved your son and will miss him for ever!

This is how Thor finds me when he requests a moment alone with my . . . I'll admit . . . partially sloshed majesty.

"Let us wait," I tell him, "until the hall is cleared." So we while the remaining minutes as the servants remove tables and recover unused food and drink for new life with the city's poorest; the few lingering nobles are helped to sleep off their over-enthusiastic mourning; the unconscious common folk dragged away by less-indulging guards. Daybreak pierces the long hall by the time we are alone. Blue dawn banishes the last fading traces where my life existed and cold, clear sunrise scours Odin-King's hall free from my ghost. Dawn will never break again for Loki.

"I wanted to speak with you today, my son," I tell the golden-haired glory of Asgard who liked to pretend he was my brother. "I did not expect to do so this early."

"I apologize for my uncouth disappearance last night, Allfather. I had much on my mind." Thor holds a lovingly perfect bow, with one knee on the floor and his head down, his red warrior's cape fanned out behind him.

"As did we all. I have been considering your role in this catastrophe: breaking a convicted prisoner from the dungeon, committing treason to smuggle a mortal from the city into Svartalfheim and so risking the lives of every being in the Nine Realms—" I expect Thor to start shouting, or arguing with me that he couldn't let Jane die whether or not her death would let us bury the Aether farther from the Dark Elves' grasp. He doesn't, though. He listens to Odin-King extol his crimes with his handsome face composed in quiet sobriety, head still down. He doesn't stand up. He doesn't break in to remind me that by drawing Malekith out from hiding he—and he alone—finally finished the war his grandfather began. His eyes are on the floor. His somber patience is eerie.

Thor is different.

Have I been remembering him wrong? All the years I spent drifting in the Void have changed my memories. Frigga and I spoke while I was in prison, and I am not sure any more what is real and what is an illusion. I am coming to terms with the truth that I am probably mad. I can feel madness lingering in the deep places of my mind.

No, I am not remembering him wrong. This is right. Thor is different from the Thor I knew.

And no, it isn't the drink that makes me think so.

"—ending the Dark Elves' threat for once and all," I finish, because he won't. Thor's brow softens although he still doesn't look up; yes, he wonders—in fair composure, even—if he is not about to be punished.

I want to laugh. A black hole opens behind my heart. The crazed euphoria pushes at my throat, trying to climb up into a grin. The drink almost lets it.

This lie I was about to say is supposed to be my parting blow. _Isn't that what I am? Isn't that what I do? _A liar. And this shining beloved cretin has stolen even this from me.

Very well. Asgard will have its king. Let Thor be king. I have no more lies to give him. We will face each other this one last time in poisoned, unadulterated truth.

The dangerous pressure is back. _Don't you dare smile!_

I am rigid, one hand gripping his golden spear tight enough that my hand aches. Laugh, or weep.

Possibly Thor mistakes my hostile demeanor for disappointment. All right. I can improvise around that.

"The last time you stood before me having defied my orders," I, Odin-King who is Allfather tell him, "I stripped you of all titles and banished you to a backward realm to learn humility. Today, you stand before me having won the war my father could not but it is humility I see in your eyes."

He looks up because he still has no ability to mask himself. At least he stays kneeling.

"Every realm on the World Tree witnessed you defeat Malekith in single combat," I say to that quiet somber face, "yet you will not boast of it and you do not defend yourself from my charges. Is this my son I am facing, or his shell?"

"I admit I defied your orders." Thor's head goes down again, at last. He remembers himself too late. "I did so because it was right, but I will accept whatever punishments you deem appropriate." Again, the eerie calm. Again, the sturdy composure.

"Every soul in my empire," I say, "saw you offer your life to save the universe from darkness." I take a breath. "What can Asgard offer its new king in return?"

Thor stares at his bent knee. "My life." He stands up without permission. His unmasked brow is tight, and while he meets my eye his emotions run wild across his face. "Father, I cannot be King of Asgard. I will protect Asgard and all the realms with my last and every breath but I cannot serve from that chair—" He makes his speech without pause, which tells me that he has been rehearsing exactly this from the moment he asked for an audience. He tells me that I—Loki—of all people deserved the throne above him. That I was better suited to be king. That I had the right of him from the start, that he is not fit to legislate and would serve Asgard better as a field commander than a ruler. He vows that this is a decision he has come to of his own, and that falling in love with a mortal has nothing to do with his abdication.

When I demand to know why, Thor turns my own eulogy against me: that just as the younger brother died with honor, so too will the older brother try to follow _his _example. Then he holds out his enchanted hammer for me to take.

I taste metal in the back of my throat. That great weapon and all it symbolizes dangles from his foolish grip, and I cannot take it. Odin-King—the _real_ Odin-King—could take it, but for my lack whatever passed between us in that moment is gone. I can only wave him off, filling his head with more fluff and deceit.

_Liesmith_.

I am only a shadow under a mask. Even now, I am too weak to lift that hammer.

If I try to take it, he'll know. If I try to take it, he'll attack me with it.

There is nothing I can do but whisper more falsehoods in his ear, making him believe that he has made his father proud even as Thor abandons Asgard to who knows what fate should Odin-King vanish without a trace. And he _will_ vanish without a trace once I have what I came to take.

"Thank you," I say to his shadow once he is gone. I am vindicated at last, after death. No, Odin's son is _not_ fit to be king.

What then?

Let him go. Or let him change his mind and return. Let Thor chafe as king or let him start a civil war. I don't care. We all have choices to make, and Asgard is no longer a part of mine.

I cannot feel my body, with or without the mask. I am glad for the drink. This is my anesthetic.

As morning wheels upward and the rightful King walks boldly straight out the palace gates, I retire at last for the royal hall. My funeral is done. My good-byes have been made—such that they were. I must gather whatever I wish to take with me, and after that . . .

After that—

Asgard's weapons vault.


	2. Transcendence

_A/N: Thank you very much, to everyone who favorite-ed, marked this as a story to follow, or left a comment. Posting a story is a bit like diving in slow motion off a cliff-you second guess yourself all the way to the edge and then, thanks to the wonders of slow-motion technology, get a good long while to second guess yourself all the way down. I really appreciate the feedback! My plan is to have a new chapter up every week._

* * *

The drink settles in by the time I make it to my suite. I am weightless, the air is heavy, my coat is too warm, and every move I make is of extreme importance.

It's funny—hysterical_—_the way feelings can wash upon a person caught unawares: my suite has been dusted, and it's this homey, cared for surprise that hits me in a wave when I swim through the double doors. I am freer than I have been in some years now, as if I could drift sideways and think myself to bed. Warmth lives in these walls. The light is peaceable. There are no shadows here. There will be no pain if I sleep.

This is _my_ home. That is _my_ entertaining room. There is _my _locked door to _my_ bedchamber. Friendly, scallop-legged tables bask in their old spots and my satisfied, overflowing bookshelves wink motionlessly from the walls in between stately curio cabinets. Each and every happy surface or article of furniture is polished and new as if I had only gone away to visit Midgard. They are all waiting where they should be, unchanged. Each one is a soap bubble connection between now and years ago from now.

These rooms, you know, are the rooms I used to own before I tried to kill myself.

This is the suite-that-was. This is the suite-that-might-have-been. This is where I used to belong.

. . . I think—honestly I think . . . that I am a little drunk.

I sit down on the footstool to work off my boots, which takes far more effort than it should with time slowed to half speed. The marble floor is almost too much to look at, with its blurred sweeping lines merging and reforming from one square to the next. I have to look at the plain black rug to keep my head straight. When I stand, the maze-y stone is pleasantly cool against my bare feet. It's nice stone. Not rough, unfeeling stone.

My bedroom door is still protected by eight separate enchantments, because as a self-important little shit this seemed like a good idea at the time. When I finally get the things unlocked I have to cling to the door to keep from falling through.

Inside, the air smells like a spoiled wretch's naïve, self-pitying desperation if I were to tell you the truth.

Safe. Checking twice to make sure I _am_ safe.

That someone's dusted outside concerns me much as I can be concerned from within my internal downy blanket; I suspect, as a distant theoretical-fear, that these are Frigga's orders. Loose-limbed, I slough through setting up a perimeter ward with an alarm. The magic fizzles and sparks before catching hold. Which is _hilarious_.

I feel, in truth, pretty damn good for a dead person.

I don't want to waste this feeling. I'm going to waste this feeling if I get started sorting what I want to take with me, and right now that's the worst thing I can do. Packing is out. The weapons vault is out. I think . . . I _think_ . . . I can risk cleaning myself up a little. I haven't been able to get properly clean in _years_, not since . . . well, actually, not since the last time I lived in this suite.

The lights in my washroom are butter-yellow, rich and soft. My legs don't want to stay straight. My knees could be buckled with a teaspoon. I bow to nature with my chin dropping on my chest, my head slack on my neck for the thrill of seeing the world tip upside down. I have been replaced inside and out with glowy vibrancy.

Dropping the illusion which masks me as the worthy Odin Allfather, I duck my head as a green gold aurora sears my eyes with more blazing light. My hands grow from Odin's veined weathered hands. My own clothing emerges poorer, cruder, but mine. _Really_ mine.

In the washroom mirror I look ghastly, ghoulish, sickly, ill. Under the pristine globe lamps my face is burnt; my eyes are sunken; I am paste slapped over a boney outline. There is a weight above my head that stretches from one horizon to the next, but right now I can't see it and—better—can't feel it. The air should be this heavy always. I am made from cloudstuff.

No; what did I s. . . ? I am _vanished in light_.

The shower is nice. Cold water is nice. Hot water is nice. The tub is nice. Every surface is welcoming. Every texture is comfortable. Drying off is nice. The slick marble floor is biting under my feet and this is nice; the Alfheimr rug is a fuzzy warmth and this is nice, too. Just walking around feels good. My robe is dusty, but good. My chair—my familiar unaltered chair which hasn't moved from the spot by my heavy curtained window—is a good place to sit.

With my eyes closed and my neck against the hardwood back, I don't have to do anything or see anything, and being alive means nothing except feeling moments sleep by thick as viscous honey that passes through me without catching hold.

By the time I wake, get up, and crawl into my old clothes from my old dressing quarters there is no more glowy vibrancy. I am dull, emotionless lead. The suite surfaces around me—not a poetic _was_ or _might-have-been—_just an old place full of old, worn-out, dried-up roots. A tomb.

The roots are all dead. What aren't dead need to be sliced free.

I won't bore you with the details of what I chose to pack. Suffice to say that I wanted nothing sentimental. Imagine my perplexion at the nonsense I kept from fifty, one hundred, five hundred years ago. Also, far too clear to me now that everything personal I owned is rubbish. I do not need to fill up my new life with princely rubbish. _Loki_, I decide, _was a grandiose fool_.

Good _riddance_.

Pairing down my life takes less than an hour. When I am finished I have a small bag which contains nothing of me except tools to keep me alive. There are weapons and necessities for travel, four books on magic less asinine than the rest, and ink for drawing runes. I need nothing else. I want nothing else.

I am almost done hacking off my hair when my suite's perimeter alarm sounds. I snatch my bag and throw on a spell for invisibility, then slip out the double doors into the royal hall. Othgam Svaldismage, Svaldir's runny-faced attendant, is being led to Thor's suite by two guards. They are sixty feet from me, not looking my direction. They couldn't see me if they tried.

Svaldir. Well, Frigga can deal with the high council. She'll be a better king than Thor, at any rate.

Asgard is smeared thin and lackluster when I step out into watery afternoon. The guards and attendants, councilors and war councilors, sorceresses, messengers, and staff are sluggish walking between faded columns or speaking in low voices on the blemish-free antiquated steps as if they, too, are made ghost-like by the passing centuries. Or if they, too, died last night and haven't yet dispersed from their old haunts. They are unreal to me as surely as _they_ cannot see _me_. We pass each other in separate futures.

But then, I always knew we would. Someday.

I _am_ alive and I hate them all. The scholars and the warriors, going about their day as if nothing has changed. The gentry and their nameless staff, hungover but nonplussed. The masons and the prophets and the dancers, who don't mind that the world moves on. The children and the adults, caught up with their own lives. And I hate grandmothers and I hate young strong heroes, who won't remember me in twenty years. I hate old bent-backed men and young women who wear gold in their hair—rich silk-swathed merchants and poor ragged workers, who belong here more than I do—I hate the people lingering by the fountain in Bor's Square, who look like jeweled birds, and the guards marching as shift changes outside the treasury. And I hate the people watching the guards: mothers and infants, a puppet vendor who's laughing at two little boys, and the boys tugging each other out of the way for a better view.

I hate every soul who would be missed.

The weapons vault is buried below several security blocks and an automated sentinel compound. I rebind the illusion that makes me into Odin Allfather and dodge behind a winged statue to dispel my invisibility.

_And_ I hate Odin Allfather. When I am Odin-King, the best protective measures in our realm melts aside. I can parade into the heart of our stronghold with its astral-armored guardians bowing me along. Smiling. Honored to see me.

The guards leave me outside the vault itself. Ahead, habrium walls slanting inward from floor to mid-ceiling turn the corridor into an elongated triangle. The habrium is drab and morose, the color of bruises; along with such morbid surfacing the many deepset alcoves give this place a crypt-like appearance. White grids cut the far wall and what exists of a ceiling—here are the vault's naked teeth. These grids are photo-optical wards, and the light they emit is cursed. Any person entering the vault who isn't known to these wards will trigger the Destroyer. Any person trying to steal what lies here will burn.

Except for Prince Loki.

This place is also called Odin's Trophy Room, so the weapons vault is of _course_ open to Odin's sons that Thor and I can marvel at our father's prowess. This is the place where he keeps every mighty weapon stolen from the hands of his defeated enemies. He used to bring Thor and I back here to tell us tales about his crushing victory over the Frost Giants. Oh, how we _cheered_ when Laufey-King fell. I didn't know it at the time, but the Casket of Ancient Winters wasn't the only prize ransomed from Jotunheim.

I belong in this trophy room, too.

I wonder if Odin Allfather used to spend decades lying awake at night smirking to himself when nobody could see because he had taken, not only the keystone to the Jotun civilization, but Laufey's son as well. I wonder if it gave him pleasure to hear his enemy's whelp calling him _father_.

As soon as I'm clear from the guards' admiring eyesight I kick Odin's hard stride into a jaunty stroll. The corridor could be an open-air market brimming with flowers and summer toys. Everything here is for sale. I lose the Allfather's stately composure for a meandering wile that leads me from one vendor's stall to the next. No one can see me inspecting the wares, but I incline my head anyway to imaginary merchants and smile at imaginary common folk out for a day in the sun. I step aside and open an imaginary gate so a woman laden with Midsummer gifts can usher her small girl into the next shop.

_Your royal highness! Sir! Here we have a lovely Orb of Agamotto! Fancy price—nary a cost to you, sir!_

Ick. The clairvoyance thing is nice, but I don't dare touch the surface. No, I don't want any more gateways between dimensions. I can already feel my skin trying to abandon ship.

_Ah. Moving along, then. Here's a pretty treat: a goblet wreathed in bright orange fire. How about an Eternal Flame?_

Now _what_ am I supposed to do with that? Next!

_An ancient spectacle! Behold, sir, the Tablet of Life and Time!_

Useless. My not-great-grandfather Buri already had some fun with that. The Aesir can tell you. Thanks to him, they can tell you every day for about five thousand years.

_You do know your specialty items, sir! I can see you're a hard man for a sell._

I'm not a man. But do go on.

_Ah-ha. Here is the Warlock's Eye. Mind control is a fad always in season—_

The Warlock's Eye is out. We never got that to work.

_Very well, sir. Here we have a . . ._

The Tesseract glowers up from its alcove.

My insides contract into a small steel point. My blood slows to a thick, slimy gel.

Alone. I am alone.

There is no one in this corridor but me.

I shut my eyes.

There are more alcoves farther ahead, so I turn left and slink onward. My footsteps clank on the stone. They're _my_ footsteps.

I pivot to a stop before what turns out to be a gold armored glove. I recognize what this is, too, and the drowned feeling melts into a vice-like rush behind my eyes so hard I have to smile until my face hurts.

_Ooh. Now _you're_ a shiny toy_

Hidden by the habrium walls, in the vault's mortuary shadows, I lift the Infinity Gauntlet from its luminescent stand. The metal plates are slick and yielding in my grasp; almost too much so. My false face warps like water in the reflective surface but the golden-hued skin is plain—no engravings cheapen the armor into silly excess. The six unadorned jewels blaze like miniature, winking suns.

This weapon is beautiful.

This is a weapon made to be worn. This _wants_ to be worn.

I fumble opening my still-invisible bag, and then the Gauntlet joins my books with a slithering percussive crash.

_Next!_

I've got one more on my list. One more happy plaything to buy from this market filled with flowers.

The Casket of Ancient Winters is right where I know it will be: still revolting blue under a polished facade. The Jotun weapon is weighted with its own failure as the conquered crown for a dying race, but this is coming with me too. Ice and snow is a devastating skill if wielded correctly. Pity only a Frost Giant can use this weapon.

My heart is sweating under my ribs. The curved handles sting my palms when I heft the Casket. Acid prickles up my arms. The Casket's deep cold eats my false Aesir skin without my willing, turning me into a monster under my Odin-mask. I can feel my shape warping, growing cold, as I am replaced with a Loki-shaped horror. I remember what happened the last time I held this weapon, and summon a cooling spell over myself to prevent ice forming a protective barrier between me and now-scorching-hot-Asgard. What would the vault guards think if Odin Allfather left icy footprints?

The forced transformation creeps up my face. My eyes burn. I lose my sense of smell. My vision changes. While I don't miss the musty, muddy, stone-cold air buried so far below the palace, there is a newfound ability hand-in-hand with the lack: when my brain reorients to its new shape, I can see infrared.

I can see where I've paused in place, here and there. I can see my handprints inside the Infinity Gauntlet's alcove. I can see a glowing, ghost-trail hovering behind me—stretching back in time—where my Aesir shape's hot flesh and blood left a tattle-tale path.

It's a good thing the vault doesn't employ Frost Giants as guards.

Oh well.

The Casket goes under my books, so it doesn't hurt my Gauntlet.

A deep voice says, "Your majesty."

I whip around, back straight, hands rigid at my sides. Through still-Jotun eyes Svaldir's green councilor's cape is blue. The gold-caped vault guards beside him wear light gray. The councilor's dark brown skin is still almost normal—at least, the correct color names I have for Aesir skin seem to fit well enough with what I'm seeing. Both Svaldir and the guards emit radiant living heat that makes my empty sto—

Erm. You know what, never mind.

I am thankful, in every electrified _cell_ of my body, that I kept my Odin-mask up. Another heartbeat and I have illusions constructed to fill the two empty trophy stands, the most obvious behind me and out of sight.

"You have a son and daughter," I say, to cover what I have been doing with an impression that I'm only snooping around my own vault for sentimental reasons. Not, I don't know: stealing? "All these victories around me, and yet . . . tell me, Councilor, have I failed in the one legacy which matters?"

Svaldir bats not an eyebrow. Skilled politician, he. "Your legacy will take the throne after you, as was always meant. He will be a good king." Liar. "Beloved, and strong." True.

He hasn't seen a thing.

"This is the second time you have come to me at personal hours," I warn him, breathing easier. With the Casket safely in my bag I can feel an inverse transformation creeping down my scalp, reverting me to my usual shape. I am rendered temporarily blind when the spreading acid reaches my eyes. Then, Svaldir is wearing green and I remember what yellow looks like. I adopt Odin-King's fire-and-axes voice. "Please tell me you come with good news."

Svaldir draws into an apologetic, respectful stance. "There is an emergency meeting in the War Council's Tower. I begged Tyr's pardon; I said that this is something you would wish to oversee. The children are squabbling over what to do in the event that a colony has sprung up on Vorsgard. There's only one Midsummer Beast, and not enough sticks to whack sweets from it."

"News from the investigation?"

"None. Our finest have only been deployed as of two hours since, by approximate count. Ilda is with them as per your command." He tucks his hands behind his back in a gesture of off-the-record informality. "If you want my honest opinion, Allfather, I hope there is a colony. In a single day we've suffered an attack on our own home and lost a prince—the people could use a good revenge war to settle their nerves."

Preside over the War Council? Fizzing sunlight fills up my chest. Laughter flutters, but I squelch it. I keep my face implacable.

Sure. Why not?

"I appreciate your coming to find me," I say, moving away from the false Casket to face Svaldir with a haughty nod. "Let us see what the Red Tower is deciding in their king's stead."

He follows me from the weapons vault. His attendant, Othgam, is waiting for us in the hall. Othgam's eyes are glassy, although whether this is for having been unsuccessful in finding dear departed Thor or because he is still unused to being this close to royalty—who can say.

The vault guards flank us to the closest checkpoint, and the next pair to the middle checkpoint. Councilor Svaldir and Othgam Svaldismage are searched at each juncture, just in case the High Council has turned to black market thievery. My person is never searched. My invisible bag passes through all levels of security unnoticed, hanging from my left shoulder like a messenger's satchel, although I have to cast a silencing spell on both the contents and my armored side to keep the two from clacking together.


	3. In which I play King

The Red Tower—the War Council's Tower—is located at the southwest end of Bor's Courtyard. Possibly this coveted spot is more evidence that Bor belonged to the War Council in his early centuries rather than the High Council—but that far back, who remembers? Regardless, the result is view over Asgard that encompasses most of the Eternal City's prime real estate. The endlessly dull blue sky and near-at-hand cliffs are kept at bay with sparkling towers, flowing spires, myriad labyrinthine walkways, hair-thin bridges, arches, weightless domes, and picaresque gold-plate statues that offer a hundred thousand things to look at should running an empire's martial arm become too droll.

Tyr Hymirson, the Chief War Councilor, is Odin's military adviser and also head of the Court of Justice. He is missing his right hand and, unfortunately, this absence is the most interesting thing about his otherwise stamped-for-approval personality.

He and Odin go way back. Odin's policies are Tyr's policies. I expect they thought they'd be wiping each others' backside even unto their death beds. At this point they are practically the same person: grizzled, gray-bearded old warriors with a shared vision for the cosmos that includes mightily swinging mighty weapons and spouting honor from their arses. People like me don't figure into this vision. Had I been a low-born criminal I would have been tried and probably beheaded under Tyr's command. As it is, Tyr stands up to clap a proud fist to his heart in salute when I sweep into his amphitheater.

All right, when I who am Odin-King sweep into his amphitheater.

"The War Council is honored by Odin Allfather," announces the Red Scribe without missing a beat, from her post by the marble-benched inner circle. "Son of Bor; grandson of Buri; bearer of the True Spear, Gungnir; ruler of Asgard the Eternal, high king of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil."

Yes, yes, yes. Father of the Year and Gloating Schemer. I take my seat in the over-engraved opulence that is the Red Throne, on Tyr's right, while the rest of the War Council salutes. My invisible bag goes under the armrest farthest from him while I pretend to take my time getting comfortable. An old man's bones, after all.

"We are pleased to have you with us, Allfather," Tyr tells me, without a glance in my direction. _You micromanaging bastard._ "I had thought his majesty would take the day for mourning and reflection. You were not seen at breakfast, nor in the Royal Tower for our meeting with the Vanir."

Yes, and I'm famished.

"My mourning is done," I say aloud in Odin's most intractable I'm-too-important-for-questions voice. I've heard Tyr wield one just like it. Maybe they practiced being obstinate fools together. "Please, continue. Councilor Svaldir told me that we had lost contact with a strategically important outpost. What is the situation on Vorsgard?"

Odin's symbiote gives up the over-embossed floor to his war leader with a grudging, "Lord Aumdyn?" His war leader steps back into the high circle's pool of sunlight from his deferential retreat at my magnificent presence. His black hair comes alive with bright flashes—he's wearing gold. Gold? Like a woman. His red cape is also clasped with the stuff, molded into an eagle holding a club. All right, _this_ makes him marginally more fascinating than anyone else in the stifling, self-important room.

"Allfather." Lord Aumdyn thumps his ribs with a meaty fist. "Chieftain Tyr. We the council concur with his majesty's decree: if there has been sabotage, any persons responsible for interfering with the outpost on Vorsgard are henceforth traitors and subject to punishment as public spectacle. If, however, evidence comes forth that points toward the existence of a colony on that world, I move to recommend that execution is delayed in favor of thorough interrogation."

"Agreed," I say. Obviously. Why, has Odin forgone questioning in favor of punishment this past century? This is going to be fun, reigning high-chieftain over his mockery of a court—

A dizzy rush sweeps up my spine, making the blood pound in my temples. Not _century_. Four years. Only four years have passed on Asgard since my fall.

The Red Tower tries to pitch me back into eternal darkness. I clench the throne's decorated armrests. The knotted reliefs swim under me.

I am older now than Thor is. Not by much, but my older brother is not older anymore. And nor is he my brother. Nor is the king my father.

All the cosmos has shifted. I am a ghost.

I am . . . nothing.

Aumdyn inclines his sparkly head in somber thanks. Through the numb ache under my skin, the war leader's voice echoes dully—no more than another ghost in a vast unending wasteland. I am not reining over his left-behind court—I am a smug intruder in a realm I no longer have any claim to.

Aumdyn says, "I cannot overemphasize the gravity we may face should the outpost be compromised, sir. Technology likely still exists on that world and in fair enough repair that enemies of Asgard could use the planet as an offensive stronghold from which to attack the city."

How much has changed in four years? It's hard to remember what things were like before.

"Old mechanical-chemical bifrosts—" the war leader is saying— "laughable though they may seem could still transport insurgents to us. With over a hundred thousand square miles of accessible surface topography, trying to pinpoint a location for retaliatory attack would be near-impossible. A network of tunnels through the ruins could provide perfect cover for these anarchists."

I have slumped into a comfortable poise in which to hear this doomsday laundrylist, and remember too late that I need to sit like Odin Allfather. I unlace my fingers. I drop my hands to my knees. I plant my feet on the marble floor and try to keep my toes, shins, and thighs at ninety-degree angles to each other. I try to do all this without looking like I'm trying to do all this . . . or itchy.

"Lord Aumdyn," I say when this awkward re-shuffling is done. "Your concern is unbefitting a warrior of your rank." This is what Odin would say. "My grandfather Buri faced an uprising from Vorsgard when he declared himself king, and I do not intend to suffer the same insult. Any survivors from that first colony—" here I hesitate, although I know what Odin should say. He'd say the same thing I made him say last night to Svaldir: _There will be no second colony on Vorsgard_. However . . .

However.

That's a bad damned order.

Anyway, what's the point of being king if you can't give your own orders? I'll be gone as soon as this meeting is adjured. I want to give one command while I'm sitting the throne. A real command. Let the War Council choke on it.

"—Any survivors from the first colony," I finish, slowly, "or any recent defectors who have formed a new colony . . . will be treated with as an independent kingdom."

Silence from the war council.

No, they never did like my ideas.

I continue, fighting a smile: "Negotiations will commence immediately. I will personally send an ambassador to the surface of Vorsgard to meet with an ambassador from the colony—should one exist—and our ambassador will proudly welcome the new kingdom to our side in the face of our recent '_grievous suffering' _at the hands of the Dark Elves. Meanwhile, my ambassador will carry a spell which will be placed on the colonists' ambassador so we can track him back to his point of origin. This will show us where the colony is so that if they turn out to be hostile we can easily destroy them.

"Or," I add, "if it so happens that all they wish for is _acceptance_ as loving sons and daughters of Asgard—even better! Now, rather than a second war with a civilization that probably just wants to be left alone, we have a built-in planet-wide outpost made up of a people who know the world's intimate secrets. This so-called independent kingdom will act as our eyes and ears if hostile forces ever _do _invade Vorsgard, and in exchange for their unwitting fealty they will earn a place as part of our trade empire. Trade, you know, cements bonds more deeply than fear."

I conclude: "Vorsgard will began exporting raw materials scavenged from their lost world to production facilities in Niflheim and Alfheim within the year, and in return be granted access to modern goods and military aid. A few millennia from now their efforts may well have rendered Vorsgard habitable again! We can then utilize the planet for our own needs—wouldn't that be something? Instead of burning it to a crisp—again—the planet could find new life as an asset for all of us. Population restrictions could be lifted on Asgard. Imagine having the right to bear three, or even _four_, children.

"_Or_," I say, dropping my genteel tone for open sarcasm, "I can give the order to open the bifrost on Vorsgard as my late son did to Jotunheim, and rid us of this problem once and for all. One hour's effort could save us a prolonged military campaign. Something tells me, however, that incinerating our own homeworld will be an unpopular move among my subjects. Just a hunch.

"In conclusion, Chieftain Tyr," I say with an offhand smirk that probably raises his hackles as much as it raised Odin's, "while not one single thing I just proposed is _honorable_, you must admit it has a certain . . . elegance?"

Ha. Perfect.

No, not really.

I lied.

That isn't what happened.

That's what I _would_ say if I wanted a fast trip off the rimfall for real, this time without being dead first.

I am a prisoner. My survival depends upon my ability to play this role to perfection. As soon as I give an order that is not an Odin-order I will be outed, tortured, and killed.

That's a bit much for a good-bye present.

I stare at the ceiling so I don't have to face the room.

Here is Odin-King's command: "Any survivors from the first colony . . . will be generously offered the chance to swear eternal fealty to me. Should they refuse, they will be eliminated. There will be no traitors to my crown building their own empire on our homeworld."

_This_ speech gets a cheer. Tyr mashes his hands together.

I really, really, really, _really_ hate Asgard.

Afterwards, Odin's sycophantic rabble falls into discussion about the completely insane possibility that our outpost has been attacked—not by traitors—but Frost Giants. _Frost Giants? _How Jotunheim was supposed to have found Vorsgard is apparently besides the point, as is how Jotunheim was supposed to have landed there.

Listening to them bicker, shout, threaten, swear oath upon oath for vengeance, I at least wait for someone to say, 'Thank the Nine that our beloved Prince Loki slew the evil Laufey-King', but this posthumous consolation never comes. No one—not _one_ among them—mentions my most noble accomplishment. Not even _Tyr_, who echoes the sentiment that Asgard has let Jotunheim fester under our noses for far to long and now that Laufey _is_ dead—somehow—after attempting to murder Odin Allfather, this is the time to settle affairs. No one says anything about my thwarted attempt on the Jotun homeworld.

A cold finger of doubt worms into my head and then, an hour after the discussion slumps off to Dark Elves, full disbelief. Hot, constrictive, boiling fumes hit a flashpoint in my stomach. I sit motionless in Odin-King's glorious chair, burning alive while they busy themselves with the idea that—if not Jotunheim—_Svartalfheim_ could have manifested a two-pronged attack.

When the Warrior's Council adjourns, I postpone making my escape. Rather than oblige Odin Allfather by vanishing into nothing, I break into his private study to usurp his Nine-damned _name_. A king has afternoon duties to attend. There is a quartermaster's report to sign, after all, and repairs to the city that need evaluating, delegating, and _my_ royal seal—oh, and numbers have been dredged up for our losses both Aesir and financial that must meet my utmost concern. A king is a busy person!

_How does this figure into your plans, All-Father?_

_He wanted them to forget me_. That knowledge burrows into my stomach like a family of rats. He wanted me locked away and forgotten.

Tonight, I am Asgard.

I send my staff to fetch a late lunch so that I may eat on the balcony outside Odin's suite while I sift through his documents. Damage to the armory will sap funds—oh, look, the Einherjar want a pay increase. Granted. He can afford it.

The commoner school took a blast that reduced its left quadrant to ashes? That one's a priority; we need to rebuild morale!

Vanaheim's produce shipment took a hit also, so we have to order a new . . . everything. Damn. That will further deplete our funds. We can recover, but with the costs adding up from reparations we will need to raise port tax. Possibly recruiting the now-jobless or now-homeless quarter following the attack for a mass employment in manual rebuilding will circulate our economy enough to help offset that tax.

Weapons restock? _Yes_.

A proposal to improve shield deployment time? Hindsight is expensive, isn't it.

Ooh, looky. Six separate councilors request investigators be sent to Jotunheim. _Nope_.

Much of our livestock survived a second blast, thank goodness, but goats are now running free through the river district. Huh. Oh, that's funny. I wish I saw a few during my funeral.

Lord Gafal wants to give Niflheim the right to plunder Svartalfheim for any marketable resources? Nuh-uh. Also, Svaldir should keep an eye on him. With a request like that, Gafal might be dancing to some else's coin.

Oh, this one's _good_: There is widespread popular appeal for Asgard to grant Thor his own statue, and/ or a holiday in his honor, and/ or a public commendation. Yes, yes, and yes—but the last one might be kind of hard now that he has _abandoned all of you_, you _dull-eyed witless swine_.

I think I should put the statue in the courtyard in front of his suite's window, facing away from the palace, so that every time he looks outside he's looking up his own behind.

Frigga finds me at the balcony table with my feet on the chair across from me and supply lists spread out in between what has become a kind of luncheon-dinner civil war. I remember to sit like Odin only after I hear her say, in a very quiet voice, "Seeing you out here, working through dinner . . ." _Reminds me of Loki_.

A cold churning pulses down my spine. I kick my invisible bag under my chair, where she can't step on it. "I did not hear you come in," I say, rearranging myself. Odin is itchy today.

Frigga wraps her arms around my shoulders. Some of the poison in my chest siphons away into a dim ache. I can't help but remember sitting on this balcony with her a long, long time ago. She used to read to me out here, before everything got bad.

The man who pretended to be my father worked in his study, and Thor was off running around the tower with his friends—but Mother and I had the afternoons to ourselves. Those were . . . good days. Very good days. Once my studies were finished we read An Histories and the great philosophers, the Book of War and Friafeist's Accounts of Past Kings. We took turns reading aloud the best parts, or she'd help me with the written languages I didn't know yet. I always had a special fondness for Myths and Legends of the Nine Realms, although that wasn't—_Stick me with a flaming sword_, I think I understand now why she read to me so much about Jotunheim.

Huh.

Hindsight is expensive, isn't it?

Frigga shifts behind me, drawing me back from distant musing.

She says, "Did you know that Thor meant to abdicate?"

I snap my teeth together to keep from saying something foul. _Thor_. Of course _Thor_. Everybody loves Thor. Loki is dead and Thor bounced away to be with his mortal love, so of course it's Thor that Mother is thinking about, worrying after, _missing_. Did I know he meant to overshadow my funeral? Well, considering that the last time I saw him—before he started trying to kill me—was the night he threw a tantrum because he wasn't king yet, so. . . no. No, I did not.

I can't say any of that. Not if I want to leave here tonight with my head attached.

A barb pricks my heart and swells into a lead weight. I put down my lists and press my fingertips to my forehead. No, I _scrub_ my _fist_ against my eyes, because that is what Odin does when he is tired. I make Odin say: "I suspected he might. Thor has always done things his own way."

"A trait shared by . . ." Frigga's pause is not deliberate. I can hear her regal mask cracking. ". . . the rest of the family."

_You_, Mother. There is only you, now. Come tomorrow, you will be the last of us.

In a volcanic flash my anger melts away altogether; I get up from my chair so that she may have the dignity of conversing with me directly.

Her eyes are bright as glass.

I should have left. I shouldn't have stayed this late.

Why did I stay this late?

I shouldn't have gone to the Red Tower. I should have ordered Svaldir out and made my escape. Seeing her like this, as a woman instead of my unflappable mother or Asgard's iron queen, fills me with monumental unease.

At the same time: the thought that I might _not_ have come back here; that I might have plundered her husband's vault and simply left, sinks a hook into my throat that I can't dislodge.

I don't know what to tell her. Too much has passed between the present and that time when we shared books on her balcony. Those people are long gone.

"Thor will be well," I say at last. "He may return in a year or two. I don't think he has the patience to live a mortal's life."

Her smile is too soft to be sincere. "I remember when Loki fell in love with a mortal. Do you think that's the reason he agreed to go with Thor—?"

I grab her arm to make her stop.

"Thank you for not punishing Thor for Janefoster," she says, instead. No smile.

Oh. So this was about me, after all. Now that I know what she wanted to say, I think I would rather talk about Thor. "Let us not speak of it."

"I wish—" she closes her mouth. Even _she _doesn't get to use that word around Odin. Her handsome brows knit together. She turns her face to the city's expanse. She purses her lips. "Thor will come to his senses. You are right. You are always right. Thor doesn't have the patience for _milking cows_ or—" she falters again, tries to smile. She changes her mind, apparently, and the topic, by laying a hand on my cheek. Her touch is cool and soft. Her hand smells like pollen. "You cannot rule forever, my love, however much you might want to try."

"_I know_." All irony aside.

Frigga smells exactly like a mother should: spiced perfume, clean silks, pollen and dirt from her garden. She has been planting without me. Her face is lined, now, but I remember when she helped me build a trellis fort one balmy summer. She showed me how to encourage a big leafed vine to grow over the top, giving me my own private sanctuary in the green. I used to bring my toys out there and play.

Thor didn't have patience for gardening. Growing things meant taking joy in careful weeding, planting, planning ahead, following procedure. Success meant you got green instead of brown—not nearly exciting enough for his tastes.

This is how I knew he would be a terrible king.

I take Frigga's hands. I still don't have any idea what to say. This is the last time I will speak to her. I don't know if I _should_ say anything, at all. Everything I touch turns to poison; I would rather slip away than destroy this last moment as I have destroyed everything else.

_Thank you_, I want to say.

_Good-bye_, I want to say.

Frigga kisses my cheek. I lean into her—one last embrace and I am gone. She puts her hand between my thighs.

Slimy revulsion jolts me backwards. Magic flashes. I flinch as the aurora sears my vision in flickering lights; the Odin-mask evaporates and I scrabble to sink fingernails into my shattered concentration—too late.

I am . . . _me_ again.

Shock turns Frigga still as glass. Her mask remains intact. She won't scream. Her eyes haven't gone wide. She won't recoil. Her mouth creases to a tiny slash, but this is the only chink in a lethal, hollow silence that wells up between us. The silence—the stillness—squeezes my throat so tight I can't breathe. I am left standing exposed, unwelcome, un-dead, in company to the queen whose family I have destroyed. The pressure in my head pushes free. I conjure a grin to hide it, but the mask is brittle and full of holes. Shame seeps down my face.

Her hand lashes out and I cringe to my bones, anticipating the slap that will break sharp across my jaw.

I want her to hit me. She is Queen of Asgard; she won't recoil, she won't fear. She will yell for the guards, but I need her to hit me because if she summons the guards we are nothing, we are strangers, and if she hits me that's something. We are still something. There's something left.

She cups the side of my head, above my left ear. Her fingers curl through my shredded locks, with a hand that still smells like dirt.

"What have you done to your hair?" the Queen demands, as if I've just run in from playing in my trellis fort with summer twigs hitching a ride in my tangles. She cups my shorn scalp in her calloused palms, drags me down so she can press her lips to my forehead. Her chin is warm against the bridge of my nose. She hugs my head without speaking.


	4. A Prince of Lies

"Odin gave me a second chance," I tell her when the worst is over. I've calmed down, and she's calmed down. She no longer looks like she's about to break my jaw—or hug me—and I've stopped my womanish tears. We're sitting in her herbalist's room with the remains of sweetmilk and floral cakes between us like children at a Midsummer party. Dried flowers and medicinal greens color the air in layered scents, some crisp as a fire pit and others a mystifying half-dream that would lead a person half-mad trying to find the source. We could be . . . years ago. Centuries ago. I've just come home from Alfheim. Or I've just come by in between judiciary terms at the High Council.

Frigga pours mead in the silver mug she's found for my use; mead being a drink for truce. Sharing this drink is sharing trust and honor; this drink is owned by warriors and owed the night before great battles. It's a grievous offense to betray someone pouring one mead—provided one actually _drinks_ the mead. The cakes are more my style. They taste like flowers—not _real_ flowers, which as any five year old can tell you taste absolutely disgusting—but the way flowers would taste if flowers tasted anything like they smell. They are delicious _lies_.

"I lured him to Svartalfheim disguised as a palace guard," I say around a blue pastry that complements the mead not in the slightest. "I wanted to have a good long chat with our king where he couldn't have me thrown back behind bars. If the man who used to pretend to be my father did not bother to hear what I had to say before sentencing me to life in prison, he was certainly going to listen to me then."

"Odin was angry with your actions," Frigga says, because of course this reconciles everything. "As was I." She hesitates around her next bite of pastry. Her lower lip twitches, but I can't tell if she's masking a frown at me or her absentee husband. Frigga sets aside her fork with her own cake untouched.

I make an elaborate point to drink every last drop of her mead. I can't let her think I've got anything to hide now. When I am finished, I add the empty mug to our make-believe symbolism scattered on the table between us. "Do you have anything less . . . noxious? A good Vanir bitter per chance, or even a—"

"Loki." Her fingers knot together in her lap where she must think I can't see them. "Where is your father?"

I have to quirk an eyebrow at that. "I'm going to assume you mean your husband. I think we both well know what happened to the creature who gave me life." Even here in the herbalist room there are gaudy ornamental touches from the rest of Odin's personal territory: a shining managull crest and doorknob that don't match Frigga's naturalistic sensibilities. The flawless glowing metal seems to be watching us, ordering me to leave. Frigga's dried vegetation and wooden apothecary table are intruders much the same way that I am: a small green heart out-armed so much polished sterility.

Frigga's hands are corpse white. "_Where _is your father?"

Unhappiness tries to slice up into my ribs. Whatever lie I've let settle around me, that she and I could be whiling lunch and I'm still her son and she's still my mother, is gone. I swallow a sour lurch that wants to be blood. I can still taste the mead. My throat is plastered in rancid beehive.

She watches me with dark, wet eyes.

My mouth peels into an overlarge smile. Mistrust is not a sight I'm used to enduring from Frigga. "Odin?" I say. "Or Laufey?"

"Don't." Her voice is hollow.

"Don't demand to know why I was captured as a prize and lied to my en—?"

"Don't . . . pretend you don't know what I'm asking." The Queen doesn't rise to my bait for an argument. The distance in her eyes is a stinging rebuke.

I blow out a weary breath. The apothecary chairs are no good for comfort, so I kick one leg up to rest across the other and face her above the empty mug. "He listened to my story. He went to verify its truth. When he found out that I am not a complete honorless liar, he decided that I should be allowed to go into hiding. I am on my way to anonymity now and would be gone if you hadn't startled me. Not that I _minded _being startled, understand, but you're not exactly at the top of my list. I was to collect anything I meant to take from my rooms and leave—I wanted to say goodbye to you first." What a mistake that's turning out to be. I would rather hold Frigga's likeness as the grief-stricken mother from last night than remember the dirty reproach she's using to dissolve my vitals.

Her emotionless facade doesn't so much as flicker. "What story?"

"_My_ story. Strange that anyone's bothered to ask after all this time. I've been growing accustomed to being written off as a blight to be silenced. My _story_,_ Mother_. Starting with the moment I fell off the Rainbow Bridge and ending when dear sweet Hlothorri marched me back home as a criminal in chains. As I have lamented, If our beloved king had thought me worth time enough to even _speak_ with after condemning me to suffer alone and die, he'd have known two years ago that I am a harbinger of terrible truth: I'm not really the monster you need to be worrying about."

"_Where_ is Odin?" Frigga repeats.

Hatred swells black and cold in my chest. "Why? Do you think I've killed him? Am I a murderer now, in your eyes?"

She places her hands on the table, but whether to form a barrier between us or hope that I will reach out to her like a child I do not care to find out. Now as before, I've told her something important and all she worries after is whether her precious—

"Loki."

My name is not a rune of binding.

"I cannot protect you," Frigga says. Her voice is strange, old and very weak. "Whatever you have done is of your own making, and although I love you this is—"

What did I expect? _My dearling, I am so glad you are alive. Let us forget this last cen—four years—and go back to the way things were. Come here. You don't have to go into hiding_. _Please stay on Asgard_. I am _still_ a fool.

"I don't require your protection," I snap. "Or your help."

Frigga inhales sharply through her nose. She is going to ask her question again.

"Odin is watching me as we speak," I say, so I won't have to endure her wishing me away. Again. "The information I gave to him is the only reason I am alive. Even separated by the branches of Yggdrasil he won't let me be. The man who made me call him father is waiting for one wrong move—_any_ move—to use as his final excuse. He wants to have me executed. Don't be shocked, Mother, you know how he is."

"I find it hard to believe—" She _is_ shocked, but not for that reason. Frigga's lips are white and barely move— "that he wanted you to _impersonate_ him."

I take my time finishing my floral cake. This one has a bite to it like blood peppers, which is much preferable to sugary sweetness. Sweetness is best when accompanied by a pinch of salt, or liberal application of heat. Sweetness drizzled over sweetness is repellant—too much of a good thing is a badly told lie botched by someone trying too hard to make you their friend. The cakes add a floral garden to the other falsities in this herbalist's room: the garden isn't real, and the sensible wooden table isn't sensible for a High King's wife, and the hand-gathered herbs drying from the rafters weren't picked by Asgard's queen nor tied by Asgard's queen, nor hung from real rafters. The rafters are decoration. Furniture.

"And _I_ find it hard to believe," I say, "that my execution means nothing at all to you."

Frigga's chin wrinkles. She _won't_ cry. I love her that she doesn't won't cry. Frigga sees this detour for what it is, and watches me like a headsman.

"Well, no," I finally admit. "But we can't always get what we want, now, can we? I needed to get into my suite and my choices for going inconspicuous were you, Thor, or Odin-King. You and your son are currently on Asgard, while Odin-King is currently playing hide-and-seek with the Chitauri. Did you like my eulogy?"

"Tell me what he is doing." Frigga doesn't rise to this detour, either. "You said he is watching you. From where?"

"Ask him yourself when he returns."

"I am asking you." Her lips tighten. "Please tell me where my husband is."

I don't shrug. I don't smile. This is too serious for games. "In the Void. Looking to convince himself I'm _still_ an honorless liar. He wants to see that this mysterious Other I've told him about isn't a figment of my ill imagination. Your healer told me that I was mad, and I suspect your husband agrees. The last I saw of him, he told me he would plant me on a spike if I misused his trust."

I sit upright and shuffle forward in my chair. "Say! I have a question for _you_. Earlier today in the War Council, while I was ordering a territorial massacre rather than, I don't know, _establishing a second world_, I was perplexed to realize that there is a bizarre gulf in the Red Council's knowledge. Why isn't it know that it was _I_ who slew Laufey-King? I suppose by now I should stop being hurt when Asgard brushes my triumphs under the rug and brandishes my defeats for all to see, but so long as this is an unexpected chance for honest dialogue I might as well ask."

Frigga's brow furrows. "We did not think you would be proud to have that known."

"Why shouldn't I be proud? Laufey was a dangerous enemy of Asgard who would have murdered both you and Asgard's king. I am a hero."

I can see the answer written on her face as thinly-veiled pity. Heat snaps to life in my heart; I can taste cinders; sparks explode behind my eyes. She reaches for me in an infantile attempt to comfort. I jerk backwards so hard the chair scrapes. "I was raised as Odin's son. I was Prince of Asgard. I dealt the finishing blow to Jotunheim to end the war my foolish not-brother started, to save Aesir lives before the first battle-cry sounded. Does that not prove my loyalty beyond call of doubt? No, Your Majesty. Tell it true: Odin didn't want my heroism known for fear that the War Council might back me instead of Thor as heir to the throne. _I slew Laufey-King_."

She shakes her head. "We thought you dead. Keeping that secret wasn't an attempt to discredit you—What you did with the bifrost was not honorable. Yes Thor foolishly provoked them to war, but once war is declared a realm has the right to reclaim its honor in battle."

"We are not talking about the bifrost. We're talking about _Laufey_." Pressure wells behind my eyes. I fight against the bitter rush. "Tell it true, for once in my life: I am _not _your son and never have been."

Frigga reaches for me. I won't touch her. This lie is worse than any she's told me outright.

"Anyway, about my dishonor," I say, to pull us back from that abyss. "What if Jotunheim had won the battle? What would we have done then?"

"War," she says.

War. I am alone at the bottom of a black well. Somewhere written on the runes of my soul is the damnable idea that honor is less important than long-term results. So what if Jotunheim is denied the chance to slaughter us? I am doomed by my own creation. "So, you did not wish to dishonor me? What was my last act to be in our peoples' eyes, then? To send the Destroyer after my own brother for reasons never explained? To dishonor Asgard by using the bifrost as a weapon? How was I to be remembered? Don't lie to me!"

Frigga's shoulders are rigid. Her mask tightens to an impenetrable armor. "Your father thought it best if Asgard hear that the Jotnar renegades who invaded his trophy room made a second attempt to breach our city. You as King went to meet them in battle. Thor earned his redemption on Midgard and returned in time to assist you. There was a great fight on the Rainbow Bridge, worthy of songs. The Jotnar sought to control the bifrost in order to bring more of their warriors to Asgard. The fate of our golden empire came down to you, Thor, and Heimdall against thirty of Laufey's bravest. Blood soaked the sky. The ground shook. Thanks to the sons of Odin the invaders were turned back. You slew a dozen of Laufey's fiercest before taking a spear through the heart. You fell from the Bridge when the bifrost was destroyed."

I fight to stay seated in my chair. "How fitting that Loki the Liar was to be remembered with a lie."

"It was an honorable death."

"I'm surprised Thor went along with you. I would have liked to see the look on his face when Odin taught him that absurd recitation."

The skin around her eyes tightens almost imperceptibly, as if she wants to look down at her knotted hands and fears that I am going to read her in pain. "Thor said," she forces out, at last, "that you fell off the Bridge on purpose."

Oh? Yes, this is the story she told me while I wasted two years of my life in a cell. I don't remember doing this. From anyone else's lips I wouldn't believe it, but honest golden precious Thor couldn't make up a cover story this shameful. If he _had_ killed me he would have blamed my death on me . . . he would have explained, with his handsome honest face scrunched in passion, that I deserved to die. He _had_ to kill me, you understand. And everyone would have believed. It was only a matter of time anyway, they would have whispered to each other. We knew this is how it must end, someday.

I remember being forced to the edge by Odin-King, who had decided that knowledge of my birthplace made me too dangerous, and Thor, who wanted revenge for my trying to prevent his illegal return from exile. I remember Odin's spear striking blood from my head, tearing sharp across my back, knocking me to my knees. I remember Thor picking me up and pitching me bodily from the Bridge like waste. I don't remember the fall into nothing.

I remember Frigga telling me, with her illusion's weightless hands pressing through my boney fists, that none of that had ever happened.

It is a terrible thing, not being able to trust your own mind. Trying to sort out what's real and what's not is like trying to keep my footing on shifting sand. Every time one thinks one has a good foothold the the tide comes in and the pattern changes. And one is lost.

Frigga says, "You never told me how you came to make alliance with the Chitauri."

"Nor will I," I say.

Her eyes are very bright. I like the bright, honed look better than the shadowed, dead look. "You did not tell me, either, how you thought to claim Midgard for yourself without Asgard's intervention. That part I understand less than all the rest, and the rest is . . ." She closes her eyes. "Loki, you have always been bound by an understanding of political current—a certain logic, if not honor." This is as grudging a compliment as can be given, in both the circumstances and attached to the phrase _if not honor_. "Your actions against Midgard make no sense to me at all. Knowing you, I know you have some larger scheme and if I could only understand the context I could understand _why_. I want to know _why_. What did you hope to achieve? If Thor did not stop you, your father would have been forced to deal with you himself as he did with . . . past attempts to subjugate the folk of Midgard." _Laufey_. She doesn't say it out loud. _As he dealt with Laufey_.

_You are Laufey's heir, following in his father's footprints_.

No, these aren't Frigga's words. These aren't real expect in my own head. I want to pull them from my skull, sink my fingers into my brain, scratch this from existence.

"Must we have this argument again?" I complain. "Now you know that I'm not a murderer. Did you truly think I had killed your husband? Don't worry, I will be gone from Asgard soon and Odin Allfather returned. You will be happy then. And this started out such a nice visit."

The ice dissolves from her mask. Frigga holds out her hands. I hesitate—but this time I take them. "All right," she says, and she could be my mother again.

"All right?" I am dangling from a thread.

"All right."

The silence in Odin's suite is no longer so oppressive. We are sitting on the edge of memories—real memories—and the start of forever. Peace returns in waves, tip-toeing through the ashes of all that remains of our lives. There is a bubble between now and the rest of the cosmos, which nothing and no one can break.

Frigga says, "Would you like for me to read to you?"

Smiling hurts, but I have to smile. "No. I don't want to waste it getting lost in some other world. Can we just sit here for a bit more?"

* * *

Lemony warm sunlight draws me from broken sleep. Frigga's divan is more comfortable than it was last night, seeming now like downy fluff wrapped in the tail end of oblivion rather than a cage, or a cell, or an inexplicable tank with broken wires growing into my arm.

If I don't wake up . . .

If it's possible that I won't have to wake up . . .

The mud of pre-consciousness slides back over my head. _Never mind_, it whispers in a tongue too primordial for words. _Never mind_. There is yellow-white light kissing across my face; morning happens somewhere through the gauzy, luminescent drapes. Morning has nothing to do with me. Never mind. Go to sleep.

_I am vanished_.

Flames roll across a pyre boat. Lightweight, shining gold in my hand. Flowers, smells of flowers everywhere, cakes and fear. Remorse. Regret. Festering sickly gnawing from head to foot.

I break the surface in a rush with yesterday unspooling behind my eyes. Mid-afternoon bakes sweat across me in a sticky film more grease than liquid. Salt and dirt compounds into a smothering cocoon under the heavy blankets twisted around my neck, arms, and legs. My heart screeches into terrified spinning; I claw for the light. My left hand breeches the enshrouding blankets and sacred cool air pours down my skin. Every hair on my arm stands straight, reinvigorating. I tear open the gap, kicking forward to crawl out into open day. Sunlight and fresh air cleanse me in melted ice.

I dump the blankets on the marble floor and smudge my hands across my clammy face. My heart is still scrabbling like a small panicked furry thing, digging for shelter in the dark. There is a part of me that is un-Aesir, devolved, crushed into a hole. My forehead feels like snow.

Did I almost die? Or do I only think I did?

I want . . .

_Dark space and distant stars and yellow eyes. Faces smeared like reflections in oil, rippling bone, armor from teeth sewing up every surface. Skeletal faces on waxen, wiry bodies_.

I want nothing that's in my head.

I plant my feet on the clean cold floor so the icy shock will clear my mind. Sliding upright is a dangerous effort, so I creep for the royal washroom with my toes eating up as much chill as I can get. Despite the late hour Frigga's marble should be heated, but this lack is a small miracle because I—I

Damn it.

Because _I _prefer the _cold_.

I stick my head under Odin-King's washroom spigot with the flow dialed as far down the temperature scale as I can get. Tepid spray slicks down my face and neck in ropes of soothing, tickling, diamond-chip water. The water is endless. The water is numb. The water is untouchable.

_I'm drowning_.

I'm not drowning.

_I'm breathing, even with water closed above my head. The air is stale, burning dry. My nose and throat have blistered from_

I grope along the too-warm wall for a towel. Odin-King's towels are too soft and with too high of a thread count—more like tiny waterproof decorations than towels, with as much absorbent power as oil—and make a few useless swipes with the plush decor. When I stand up there is a hateful, green-eyed monster glowering at me from the mirror.

He looks . . . less like paste than yesterday. His hair is odd. I know I didn't bother with style in lopping off my hair, but _his _hair . . . _his _hair makes him look like an escapee from one of Midgard's mental hospitals. Does Midgard still have mental hospitals? Things change so rapidly there. He looks like a patient at a mental hospital.

He is not my friend. He is no one's friend. I would rather we went our separate ways, as Thor did and Odin did and Frigga will, but he is the only ally I have.

I bathe and then reassess my pilfered clothes, which are a utilitarian triple-layered biosuit protected with mesh and armor: black duricloth slashed with silver at the shoulders, elbows, and under my jacket. I used them for military campaigns that didn't require finesse; they were never really _mine_, as such, so much as a costume I wore when needed. I feel nothing for them, which is why they are coming with me. After ripping away the crescent at my collar which marks me as second prince, the armored biosuit could belong to anyone with wealth and a moderate amount of taste. And now, what to do about the madman in the mirror?

The thought of using Odin-King's grooming or cosmetic supplies leaves me feeling like a vagabond rooting through someone else's scraps. I must make myself presentable with glamors. Daily cosmetic glamors are the domain of whores and elves, but at least this magic will stick to my face, hair, and clothing until I remove it, unlike—

A hollow weight sinks to the base of my stomach and expands. The chilling marble tilts under my boots. I project my soul into the weapons vault in frantic, bloodless fury. If I've been caught—

Silence. Raw cursed light glimmers unaltered on blank, veined walls. The vault is empty. No alarms have sounded.

Good.

I recast the two illusions that cover up my shopping excursion. There is an unhappy tingling in my chest, and this is a problem almost as severe as if the vault guards had done a random inspection last night.

Am I bored, already? Would I like someone to run screaming to the palace gates that we have been robbed?

I don't like being a ghost.

My drying hair is covered with an illusion that I never did what I did to it yesterday. My face is charmed to hold as much color as I've ever had. There is a weird bullseye scar on my right arm that I do not remember acquiring but probably predates the Chitauri since the Chitauri do not leave scars; this can stay. I can make up a good warrior's tale to explain it. The black and silver biosuit has already been spelled free from dust, and looks as respectable as it can be made—which, pathetically, isn't much. At least the madman in the mirror is gone. I am a person wearing the person I used to be as a disguise . . . while disguised as a person I never was. Ha! How is that for a mental knot? And that mental knot recesses into an honest-to-godless-Nine rabbit hole, since, you know, between Odin-King, Loki-that-was, and Loki-that-is, in an odd twist of fate the person I used to be wanted nothing better from a miserable life than to please the person I never was—and now we the three of us are layers under the same make-believe Aesir skin. I am my _own_ worst enemy.

That's enough to give anyone an identity crisis.

How far down is the _blue_ under all that, I wonder. I can see no trace in the mirror. Does the _blue_ even count as my skin? Or is the _blue_ like muscle and bone at this point: an inert building block for what I _really_ am?

I think I'm either sinking deeper into madness, or getting religion.

When this aesthetic self-defense is complete I replace my Odin-mask and retreat to the receiving room to order afternoon breakfast for Frigga. The Queen retires late and rises late; something else we have in common. My thoughts wake up at night, when no one else is around to bother me. This makes—made—sitting through early meetings a royal headache, when I had to get up with the sun because this-or-that Vanir dignitary or Aesir governor thought early attendance meant a more productive court—or at least a shine on the armor for punctuality. Night-time is good for practicing magic. I suppose there'd be nothing like an attendant coming to bring his master court transcripts only to butt in at the wrong moment and find himself accidentally turned into a beetle. And then . . .

I am stalling.

Where is Frigga?

I've left my invisible bag on the balcony. I should probably bring it in, or hide it someplace more secure just in case a servant happens by to clean, but the thought of touching it makes me feel as if there is a serpent lodged in my chest. I am hexed to the floor, unable to get up and walk out the ugly pompous door into an ugly grandiose balcony. My feet are stuck to the ridiculous cold marble. My knees are too stiff to move. Whatever aura lives in this horrible old suite is closing in on me, pushing me away from the exit. I can't look at the balcony door without a squirmy, unclean sensation trying to crawl up my throat.

I can't shake the feeling that if I pick up the bag I will have lost something vital.

Odin's suite is watching me, even if its owner can't. Even if his wife won't.

* * *

Breakfast comes before Frigga wakes. I eat alone.

I am still stalling.

An attendant begs an audience to know if Odin-King will see Lady Drifa about . . . something Odin-King should already be familiar with. No, he won't be taking appointments today. Eilulsur son of Endrill the High Steward wants Odin-King to put his seal on the documents I pushed through yesterday evening—did Odin-King forget that he changed his seal last year? How could I forget my own seal? Run along, boy. Don't ask questions. There is a meeting with the royal bank that I can't avoid but do, and a request from the High Sorceresses to ignore. Where _is_ Frigga? Svaldir begs to see me in private—fine.

I can try feeling sorry for Vorsgard, for a change.

"Your majesty." The councilor pledges his heart to me in salute like everybody else, and I wave him along. I don't want his heart, and I don't want him here. I don't want him gone, either. His new attendant, Othgam, stands at his master's back doing an impression of a constipated statue.

"You, mage," I demand of the latter, for the thrill of watching him try to hide behind himself. I am Odin, Great and Terrible. Fear me. "What is your name?"

"Othgam," the statue sputters. "Ebbafson. Svaldirsmage."

"Well, Othgam Ebbafson-Svaldirsmage," I drawl, "Can you please tell me what is the most important thing for a boy-sorceress to learn during his apprenticeship?"

The boy blanches. His watery eyes focus to a point outside the curtained windows and his arms manage to lock even tighter to his orange-and-gold-clad sides than physics ought allow. "To always be quick and ready to answer well, for whatever question he is required?" he invents.

Cheeky little bastard.

I like him.

The vice in my chest loosens half a turn. "We'll see you in a green cape yet," I say, more amicably. Othgam tries to hide a gushing, relieved smile. "How old are you?"

He pledges his heart like his master. "I have one hundred and thirty-five years, sir."

And here I thought Asgard would lose its remaining intelligence when I slip off to Helheim knows where.

"Well done," I exclaim. He's almost nine hundred years from earning the right to apply for Councilorship, but apprenticing under the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs is a good way to secure himself a position when the times comes. I _do_ like him. Being Prince of Asgard I was guaranteed a place in the High Council—or War Council, as Thor chose. Othgam will have to either prove himself worthy or wind up detesting himself working as a bondsmage under someone who _is_. That, or slink off with the women to learn Healing Arts. He's off to a good start.

I clasp my hands behind my back, gone from pointless tyrant to thoughtful co-conspirator in a heartbeat. "And how do you like the Black Tower? You would be . . . let me see . . . in your second tier as a mage?"

"Yes, sir. I do, sir." The constipated statue melts into an orange-haired, somewhat hulking young man whose disposition and skin tone try to blend him into the shadows. "A lot. I mean, I like the Black Tower and I like apprenticing to the High Council. My mother is Ebbaf Imblonsdottir, sir. I've inherited her gifts. I have prowess in arms as well, of course—at the great ax especially."

Of course. Mustn't forsake arms. The boy might read all the books he can get his hands on, but for all anyone cares the question is still whether or not he can kill a man with a bit of pointy metal. At the end of the day boy-sorceresses must make a difficult choice: continue enduring Asgard as a weak magic-wielding excuse for a man, or take up living as a woman. Othgam, I'm guessing, will try for the former.

Svaldir's mage says, "I find that the ax is better for close-quarters combat in a variety of scenarios that do not favor the sword or pole arm. According to Galar's _The Skill of Bloodshed, second Principle, _the ax is—"

"And have you discovered the secret door out of the Black Tower?" I ask, because I don't care about his obligatory prowess with weapons. "There's a secret door in the second cellar that opens behind a mirror. A smart mage might charm the lock if he's very careful. Who knows where the tunnel leads?"

Othgam's delighted expression says, I am going to find out.

Svaldir interrupts his miscreant shadow with a hammer-hard, "The son of Ebbaf has been a great help to me, Odin Borson Allfather. I am pleased that you approve of his appointment as my new attendant."

"Quite," I relent. Oh well. The Black Tower is full of mysteries, and discovering them is half the fun of being a mage.

The grimace Svaldir turns on me now is prelude to a speech I've seen him give one thousand times to the High Council—seventeen thousand times to the War Council, if Thor's moaning complaints are to be trusted. The councilor has a way of tucking his lips against his teeth that make him look like a disappointed priest about to renounce God for the brandy, as my friend and one-time colleague Father Seg—

Yes, I've had many occupations on Midgard. Some of them more holy than others. Why are you surprised?

In the quiet of Odin's still Frigga-less room, the Grimace settles over us like an electrified fog. Usually this speech comes after some too-tight-in-the-trousers councilman in another realm has decided to blockade a trade route between two _other_ realms, and Asgard finds itself with an unacceptable halt in supplies delivered from processing plants in Blockaded Realm #1 or #2. The Grimace means Bearer of Bad News; a crippling thorn in the heel as inconvenience turns to potential war; political frustration because more important matters get shunted to the side when personnel are rerouted to deal with a pointless, honorless, stupid conflict that serves little but distract from managing the whole; in short: we Have a _Problem_.

For the sake of thoroughness, here is the way Thor tells it: Any time a confidant young hero (Thor) makes a name for himself in a good fight (nearly causes a war with someone we can't afford to buy off), Svaldir gets jealous because he is too fat and old to pick up a weapon (has a massive damn empire to run).

There. You can't say I'm not open to both sides.

The electrified fog thickens into heady anticipation.

I broach the Problem. "Tell me, councilor. What have our emissaries found on Vorsgard? Have they reestablished contact with our outpost?"

A muscle in Svaldir's jaw twitches. "That's the trouble, I fret. We have lost contact with them as well."

Vorsgard. Ruined homeworld. Colony.

How interesting.

I grind my teeth against the smile that wants to spread across my face, and politely tuck my hands into my cape instead. Odin doesn't delight in chaos. Odin wants everything locked up in labeled boxes. Odin would never give the cauldron an extra stir. Odin would take this news as a call to war.

"Councilor?" I say in a voice that doesn't quite sound like Odin. "Please tell my wife that I have gone to examine this situation myself. The Red Council will expect a call to arms this afternoon, but I would investigate the planet on my own before going that far. There may be more to this situation than petty warmongering would have us believe. Am I too optimistic in hoping that somewhere out in the vast whirling cosmos there is someone else as sane as I? Give Frigga a full report in regards to everything we have discussed. Between now and the hour of my return I am leaving Asgard in the Queen's command."

Having already pledged his heart, Svaldir hunts around his ribs for a second salute.

He and Othgam bow themselves out.

I wait a good five minutes before conjuring a gate between worlds. Strapped across my shoulder once more, my invisible bag flares brightly as teleportation creates a thaumatic charge around its wards. No need for them to see that my magic is green.


	5. The Problem of Vorsgard

The first time I walked between realms to Vorsgard I avoided the outpost as an unloved extension of Odin-King's empire. I had just been released from a hundred-years confinement in the Eternal City, and wasn't in the mood for more of the Allfather's minions. It seemed that after a rainbow light from the sky ripped apart my marriage of eight years I didn't want to see him or Thor or any of the others longer than mandatory—fancy that. When my punishment ended and the man I thought to be my father returned to me my right to use the bifrost, I refused him out of spite to spend the next fifty years learning how to travel from place to place on my own, in secret.

Vorsgard earned the self-indulgent honor as the place of my first successful teleportation. Something about the ash-stained sky, smoldering nihilistic carnage and helplessness baked into every scrap of murky ground really spoke to me back then. I haunted the bleak roads as a dead person, mourning my mortal family.

The last time—the only time—I visited Vorsgard, its surface glowed red beneath low-rolling, shapeless smoke. Nine hundred years ago, Vorsgard still burned from the fires Buri set.

The dead planet's misshapen landscape is a seething orange-brown mire. Blistered mud flats are sculpted into uneven peaks and dark abyssal valleys by a careless volcanic hand. Charred wreckage thrusts upward from its blasted cities at precarious angles, forming a jagged canopy of ancient towers, corroded walls, and formless metal sculptures.

This was how Buri ensured his god-hood. This was the last civil war we Aesir ever fought.

There is a weak place in the wards above a field outside the former Ocean Capitol. I teleport here and draw a shield over myself against the sweltering heat, before heading East under a giant bone-white sun. The city throws sharp shadows across my path. Skeletal remains dapple the muddy ground with cast pools of cooler air as if from the largest trees that ever lived. Small rocks and immortal habrium scrap litter what could have been a main street, carpeting the abandoned walkways like a mealy underbrush. Dead-eyed buildings full of windows watch me from the greasy layers above.

Asgard's outpost is just beyond the city's threshold, protected by defensive wards above and beyond the planet-wide network that prevents Heimdall from spying. I can see the blinking force field from here, growing larger as I prowl through a maze of corpse streets.

Nothing moves in the rubble.

Slipping into a deep oceanic shadow, I murmur a spell to slick my right index finger in casting ink and draw a rune for Sight on my temple. The dark places fill with color, making Vorsgard's ruins a splotchy tangle of white-lit glittering decay and yellow-brown secrets. Hidden in a recess the color of boiled fat, I switch my lies to replace Odin-King's mighty ceremonial presence with an unrecognizable face and featureless black robe. Another instant, and I am wearing make-believe silver gauntlets set with runic inscriptions that look terrifying but mean absolutely nothing at all. Let Asgard's loyal warriors mistake me for a scout from the Black Tower. Let the colonists take me for a bizarre and dangerous ally.

Oh yes—and one more thing. I unsling my invisible bag and bury it at the foot of a cracked, lichenous wall. A tracker spell and all those idiot wards I laid over my bedroom door will be useful, here. If any person but me comes within twenty feet of this place I will know it. If any person tries to steal what is in this place they will die. I cover the invisible bag with debris, vanish my tell-tale footprints, and step out to face Vorsgard's newest kingdom.

The outpost is silent as I approach. No guards from either side appear above the white stone wall. Dried mud crunches as I come to a stop. The ground just shy from the force field is burnt with old magic, rippled and pocked from long-standing wards. The ground holds other secrets, too: shallow impact craters warn that someone broke through the defenses, not long ago, and their solid-loop failsafe generator has been activated from the inside. Two days? Three days?

The gate is closed. No alarms echo at my proximity. No challenge is issued.

There is only silence. And stillness. And the rustle of wind through the hollow streets.

An electric current races up my spine, down to the ends of my fingertips. I swallow the grin pushing its way to freedom and give the barren wall a disparaging glare.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of my doubt and assume that you can see me," I say. "If you _can't_ see me, you are an incomparable fool and I have no interest in speaking with you at all."

No answer. Nothing. Whoever now occupies the outpost is playing safe. Very well.

I say, "I know that you are not the same people who were stationed here. Good. I am Vyir the Councilor, of the Long Wastes. Will you open your gates that we may talk?" Vyir the Councilor waits in parade rest for a response. A little military etiquette makes him into a benign figure clinging to his training, which in the face of cutthroat traitors also makes him worthy of disdain.

Sabotaging myself works well when I need to put someone at ease.

Unfortunately, my play opens to an audience of zilch.

"Ah—sorry," humble Vyir sputters. "I don't know if you cannot hear me or if you are choosing not to respond. I do not mean to invade what is clearly _your _outpost, but I must speak with someone in charge." This sword-polishing gets me nowhere fast, either, so I give up the humble chit-chat to carve a few runes into the dirt outside the re-generated force field. Green sparks shower upward, mapping the charge circuit into a grid. I tear into the grid with Holding spells, siphoning magic from main channels to flood smaller capillaries. Charge lines buckle, compensate, mutate as they try to hold back an unprecedented surge. The old failsafe's heart opens before my eyes in a spectral mirage like green rivers in the dirt; the loop completes it circuit and the force field snaps.

There is no better joy than rending another sorcerer's spells into ash.

Orange auroras crash around my feet. I walk through a hole in the shield easy as walking through a door.

Breaking into the fortress itself is even simpler; another few spells and the Open rune unlocks a towering habrium gate that grinds aside to reveal an orange-lit passageway. I construct a personal shield just in case the colonists are the strike-first type, and step out to meet them as a genteel messenger from the stars. Once they hear what I have to say, they will forgive my transgressions.

The passageway is deserted.

I hesitate on the threshold, eyes narrowing.

The outpost is lit front to back in flawless even light, sterile and unblemished. No one comes to meet me. No footsteps echo in the passageway's clandestine depths.

Hairs raise on the back of my neck.

Something wrong here. Either the colonists have abandoned the outpost after all, or—

Boobytrapped?

A smirk snakes up my face and this time I allow it. _Oh, clever-clever. You mocking trolls_. _Perfect._ I take my time drawing detection spells on the floor and walls. Magic shimmers out in a cheerful wave, caressing the passageway's sloping gray stone, delving into every nook and cranny that were once—millennia ago—murder holes through which defenders could pour caustic potions or plasma gunfire. I have to keep an eye out for any cretinous heroic types who might like to take a cheap swing at a sorcerer, but the mud path behind me remains empty.

My spell comes back negative.

No boobytraps.

No heroic types.

No guards.

Unimpressed, I skulk down the passageway while my magic evaporates into smoke. My boots clap loud with each step, but I don't bother masking the sound. There is no one else here.

What, then? Could the renegades have attacked the outpost and fled? Or are these people already too familiar with honor of Asgardians, and chosen to lie in wait for an over-confident fool to blunder into their midst? This line of reasoning stops me cold.

When the passageway ends at a second strongdoor, I press my ear flat to the habrium. If there is an ambush waiting for me, this would be a good place to stage it. I close my eyes, listening past the enveloping quiet for a tattle-tale click or cough or stray footstep. No sound trickles through from inside. I hold my breath a full dozen heartbeats before reaching for the lock.

The strongdoor opens on a greased track. On the other side is a large durstone chamber with empty arms racks arrayed from six fortified walls. There is a smaller passageway extending back into a supplementary staging area I can just see from my position, crowned with three reinforced doorways. Footprints in soot betray a company who recently used this ready room to fight against an invasion. I cannot tell if they were successful. There is no one here, now.

Quiet seeps in at the corners of the world. The silence grates my ears. I hate empty silence. I want to call out to someone. Let me turn the hunt through an isolating fortress into a game of fetch-me_-_forth_—Am I getting warmer?_

I stick my tongue between my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

Slipping through the right-hand door leads me to a short hall. The lights flicker, here. The stale air has a spongy, dense texture that puts me in mind of alchemical bombs. Airborne soot leaves an acrid sulfur residue in my throat. I can hear my breath coming loud in my ears.

What sort of people take an outpost and don't bother to set up camp or loot?

Char marks blister the floor and walls, making the hall a blasted, soot-streaked tomb. Explosions have ripped chunks from the grated walkway. An ax is buried in the far right end, deep enough to buckle the durstone.

Well done, I tell the ax's vanished wielder. I think you slew the wall. Was it a grand battle fit for the ages? Oh, the tales of Vorsgard's prowess!

The stone is not amused.

Fifteen feet onward there is a wedged-open door leading to another smoky hall, and stairs pointing down to a lower level. I take that direction, aiming a wary hand at the recess in case I need to fire off a defensive spell. Impermeable darkness drowns all but the top eight steps. The floor below is a pit of absolute black, stricken from the cosmos as a deep, Helish pool. Too dark for my Sight rune to fill with color.

The Void.

_Not_ the Void.

I conjure fire in my right hand to break the deep darkness into manageable tones. Green-tinged flames crack the abyss with make-pretend rune colors: living yellows, oranges, reds. At my command the enchanted flames flap into a ball of light and whisk down the stairs. Pops, snickers, silk ripples, whispers fill the hall with comforting noise. I follow close behind them. Emptiness prickles through my chest.

The outpost could benefit from some décor. Tapestries illustrating past victories over prior Walls, possibly. Or elvish statues—with or without the eye-bursting inverse rear facade elves seem to like—; even some of those offensively inane motivational posters Midgard started inflicting upon its serfs. Red shadows eek out uniform durstone blocks as lifeless and dull as my dungeon cell. Block after block. Step after step. On and on, and on. Warriors are not on a whole require to do much heavy lifting when it comes to having an ability to think, but even they must go mad stuck too long in a place like this.

There is a plasma rifle on the floor by the last step. My flame draws it from the lightless rift as a ghost, laying alone and unmoored in the center of a dirty, pocked habrium grate.

An abandoned rifle?

Biting cold claws up my spine. Black specks swarm my vision. I pause, hands flexed at my sides, preparing to cast the moment anyone dares leap at me.

The lower level is silent.

No sound at all from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. No one shifts in the dark outside my well of light.

I push my mask into a terse smile, and bend down to examine the lost weapon as one might examine a sweet left by some misbehaving child. I don't recognize the make or model, but the the weapon's organic sensibilities leaves a squirming pain in my throat I cannot identify.

No, I can. The mishmashed, fluid, patched-together build reminds me in an unpleasant way of the—

I don't want to think about them right now. Not in the dark. Not underground.

_Curious eyes_.

_Curious, curious eyes_.

I am not in the Void.

I am on Vorsgard.

Only Vorsgard.

I am alone.

Clapping my hands together in a joined fist, I release my flames to scatter across the ceiling's stately, even face. Green floods the level. The odd-colored shadows evaporate under real light.

I am standing in a command room.

Shattered divination scopes glitter from the dark between overturned desks, a broken Asgardian seal, and the Allfather's iconic crest. Scopes, and desks, and pieces—but no colonists. No garrison. No investigators.

No looting.

Did the anarchists merely want this garrison dead? Could they have truly had no other plan than that? Take the outpost, kill the survivors, retreat back to their hovels?

That sounds like sub-sentient aggression, rather than tactics. A wild beast slaying another who wanders too close to its territory. But if so, how _did_ a technologically inferior colony overwhelm our outpost?

I'm going to walk into a back room somewhere to find everybody drunk on the floor, aren't I? I can just picture it: Creeping through this entire fractured, desecrated fortress only to come to a last door in a last hall in a last wing with bright light shining from the seams. I'm going to huddle with my back flat against the wall, holding my breath, listening for enemy warriors. I'm going to slide open the door ve-e-e-e-ery carefully, expecting that ambush. I'm going to see the chieftain and his warriors with the defeated colonists in thrall, every last one pissed to the end of his cups.

I'm going to have give them Svaldir's unholy Grimace.

One scope at the fore is not completely smashed. The instrument lies in almost one piece, halfway under the toppled imperial flag. The divining glass is locked in an angry warning, its corrupted surface projecting white fog on the display above. I brush the glass clean with a few lazy swipes of my palm. The display isn't heavy, so I heft it like a tray between my hands and manipulate the side controls with my thumbs. The fog clears in sections, left to right. In seconds the display is revived from its stupor as the cosmos's least effective mirror, replacing my dark fire-wreathed reflection with roving shadows.

I address the divining glass: "Can you hear me?"

Garbled noise bubbles up from the display. The shadows jump and slither.

Possibly the divining glass has been told not to speak with strangers. I transform my voice into someone's . . . who is above questioning. "I am Odin Allfather, High King of Yggdrasil. I ask you again: Can you hear me?"

_Blurp. Blubb._

Oh, all right. It's broken.

After a quick check over my shoulder to ensure that I am still alone, I enchant the display to hover at eye-height while I try to fix it. This is the tedious technical sorcery I meant to have Ilda do, in sending her with the contingent to Vorsgard. Ilda likes picking apart artifacts. I dare say she loves magic devices more than people, possibly because they are the only things in the cosmos that can't outwit her just by asking for the salt. This _mechanic's_ magic, though, raised my hackles whenever the Black Tower's masters tried to make me learn. Servant's work. Bad enough to be a boy mage—and Nine Godless Realms forbid I switch to my other shape where anyone can see—but a boy mage who is also a prince does _not_ let himself be reduced to servant's work. Divination scopes should perform on command when I call for my attendant to bring one. I shouldn't have to stand here fiddling with runic pathways and charge knots. I speak and the damn device should do as I ask.

Gentle coaxing prompts a holographic aura, which I reroute by enchantment into telepathic commands. I can override the injured scope by addressing the sprite directly. The divining glass sparks and fizzes—twice. The fix isn't a _good_ solution, but my patchwork magic isn't going to be seen by anyone else.

This protracted humiliation over, I poke the display with a cautious fingertip. The shadows fly apart. The glass clears, revealing the last divination summoned by the command room's sorceress.

_Intruder_. _Warning. Intruder_. Bright alarm-red jolts the display in a scream. The warning is made colorless by my green fire, but the flash is recognizable all the same. Eight dots wink to life on the floor above me.

There you are, you cowards. Thought you would let me trap myself down here before coming to say hello?

The anarchists are congregating in a large storage hall with—if I am reading the scope correctly—a hole blasted through the outside wall into open air. The dots are lurking around their unplanned window, possibly discussing whether I am an outpost-survivor to cross off their list or someone they want to take alive. As I watch, six make an exit out the punctured wall. One more leaves the storage hall heading right, back toward the outpost's hub—in my direction. Leaving the last to stay behind as guard.

The garrison is dead. No sons of Asgard would have surrendered their outpost. There are no bodies, which means that the garrison is rotting in a mass grave somewhere and my investigatory force has already been here and gone—or been dragged away. If they're gone, I expect they are out looking for the colony. If they've been captured, they are lost. The six above me are scouts or a retrieval party, sent back here to get their hands on valuable modern supplies before my force returns—or sent to make sure there are no more unexpected visitors. Whoever these colonists are, however they overwhelmed the outpost, they are not a people I can negotiate with.

They are killers.

They will not care what I might have to say.

All right. New plan.

After I kill the man sent to assassinate me, I will place a tracking spell on their guard and take my leave. Asgard can deal with them as Asgard does best.

I set down the divining glass with a calm, cool smile. A sharp gesture dispels my green flame from the command room's ceiling. As the colorless dark crashes around my head, I wag my fingers to limber my hands for combat and climb the stairs back to the light. I feel nothing.

That's a lie.

This is going to be fun.

My poor would-be murderer is nowhere in sight when I reemerge in the staging area. I could head for the gates, but this chamber—for all its heavy damage—is filled with debris enough to make waiting here for him a smarter move. There is a broken stone table and plenty durstone rubble at my back to provide cover, plus an escape route should I need it. I won't need it. I take my time positioning myself to the right of a smoldering ex-column, where I am not visible from the left door, and conjure six throwing knives.

Footsteps clank in the adjoining hall. He's wearing armored boots. Good. That will make him slow.

I squeeze the knives in my fists.

Pebbles tremble at the hall's threshold. Rubble scrapes under a heavy gait. I can hear him at the door, now, ten feet from where I am. His breathing is a labored hiss—he is wearing a helmet with an air filter. The smoke is dangerous to him. No, he is not from Asgard.

I wish he and his friends hadn't already met the garrison. I'd have liked to scare the hell out of him stepping from behind this column dressed in all black with no breathing mask on.

His metal footsteps clank into the staging area. I tug the emotionless warrior's trance over my mind, settle into the nerveless pre-battle rush that replaces my weak flesh and bone with liquid fire. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I whirl from behind my cover, sight him for the knife throw, arms uncrossing to—

_Leering skeleton head. Oily pus-colored eyes in greasy red-rimmed sockets. Long brown teeth around a mouth black as the Void. Dark gray-gold on boiled waxen white. Grasping hands sharp nails. Curious eyes curious eyes._

The creature before me is not a colonist. It is not from Vorsgard. It is not Aesir.

A rafter collapses in my mind. My soul inverts.

The creature has a plasma rifle, although I don't see or care until a blast hits me in my left shoulder. Electric pain crackles up every flayed muscle in my body.

My limbs jerk. The durstone floor jumps from under my feet, rotating in space, smashes into my back. I arch from the floor in a congealed knot. The walls and ceiling flicker. I can't inhale. A second flash of pain. Wet warmth soaks my ribs. Damp trickles into my right eye. My knives were flung into the air when I fell. They clatter around me.

The ghoulish face appears in my vision, silhouetted against the scorched blackened ceiling. Curious curious eyes look down at me, watching to see if I can move.

My stomach floods with slippery ice. My heart shrinks so small I could disappear inside myself.

Killers? Yes.

Looters? _Yes_. What they came for wasn't weapons or technology.

The Chitauri warrior scoops up my limp, twitching hands and binds my wrists together with a pulsing yellow cord.


	6. Assorted Riff-raff

A/N: Thank you to everybody who commented or otherwise showed support. Sorry this took a while . . . there was a lot of ground to cover.

* * *

I am thrown into a dark shaft and land on my face, which is a good thing. The fall into an old Vorsgardian dungeon from eight meters sends up dust and filmy water—in other words I, as always, make my entrance with a splash. Or I as always cause a shitstorm, depending on the contents of this dungeon's liquid element. I tuck my arms against my skull to reapply my false face before anyone sees; not a moment too soon, either.

Hands grab my shoulders. I am dragged to solid ground and shoved on my side. The movement tears open the gashes on my face and ribs. I come up fighting.

"Easy! Easy, friend." A blurred face follows the hands. He looks Vanir. His scarred hands say Aesir. I don't know his name. "Hold out your wrists," he says.

"_Why?_"

My vision clears.

A dozen people occupy the gloomy dungeon besides me. Not Chitauri; Aesir. I am surrounded by warriors—Aesir warriors—dressed in underclothes, including an obese knob-faced woman wearing someone's breeches and . . . Ilda.

I sigh from the utmost edge of my tattered soul.

Here at last is the remnant of my investigation.

The Vanir brandishes an astrium dagger and a friendly smile. He is a barrel-chested warrior, tough-looking, with shiny black hair and a close-cropped beard—but my blood turns to ice. "Wrists here, friend. I am going to cut your binds."

Trick. Trap.

"Where did you get that?" I demand.

The Vanir gives me a wounded, mistrustful glare. He waves his dagger at the forlorn crowd around us. "Our sorceress, she concealed this weapon when those creatures overwhelmed our ranks."

Could he be lying?

No.

No, if the Chitauri wanted to welcome me back by slicing off my hands, they wouldn't waste time with a puppet show. This Vanir-warrior is honest: I am a prisoner among fellow prisoners. For now.

I hold out my arms. The Vanir snaps the yellow cord with a single fluid cut. He says, "I am Hruothban Adarson of Asgard," as if this is the very best thing in the entire cosmos. He is one of those perpetually happy people, I can tell.

All right, Hruothban Adarson. It's time for a new lie.

I incline my head to a polite degree for a nonentity addressing a warrior. "Vyir the Enchanter of Alfheim."

Hruothban cocks his head sidways as if this is me trying to put one over on him. "You are not an elf."

Oh really? I hadn't noticed. "I'm a thrall," I invent. "A sorcerer to the Rain Court, of Alfheim. My masters heard rumors of a strange force amassing in this realm and sent me as a scout."

"To Vorsgard?" A short, cleanshaven warrior slinks up behind Hruothban, scowling at me through a half-missing lip.

I make myself grow still. I count to five. "This is Vorsgard?" I whisper. Then, passionately, to Hruothban, "Asgard was once my home; I will tell you all that I have found so long as you ask me nothing that will compromise my masters' House."

Hruothban stows his dagger. He holds out a friendly hand, and a smile. "Well met, Vyir the Enchanter."

We clasp arms.

Ilda comes over to stand at Hruothban's left, looking sad and misplaced in a white silk undergown. She, being a good little sorceress, waits for the head warrior to acknowledge her existence before speaking.

Hruothban gestures for Ilda to join us. "Vyir, this woman is Ilda Ildurssdottir. She is the sorceress I told you about."

Ilda bobs her head. Still the mousy, round, gold-haired mute I remember from before my fall.

"Well met," I say.

Ilda parrots my greeting in sotto voice. She offers me water from a metal bowl, which isn't like the Chitauri to leave, and I notice a large astrium betrothal ring on her left hand. A lord's gift. Which lord, I wonder?

The bowl is placed in my hands with all the ceremony of a mead-sharing, which is what it's supposed to stand in for. _I know you now, and you know me_, it says_. We've had a drink together. We're all friends here, right?_ _Right?_

"These creatures," Hruothban says when I've soothed my scorched throat, "they are a species strange to me. Do your elves know them?"

Another warrior joins the group to hear what the elf-thrall has to say: a skinny giant whose flame-red hair and beard are trying to eat his face. Ilda and Cleaved-Lip move aside to let him through. The other prisoners hang back, giving their leaders room to interrogate me.

"The Chitauri," I say. I am trembling.

Hruothban nods, as if this means anything at all to him. "So . . . what do these Chitauri want?"

"Pain. In you. In everyone." Some black alchemy in my skull takes the sick, hollowed feeling in my chest and turns it into a manic rush. Rather than trembling, I now have to fight the insane leer creeping up my face. "They are quite single-minded in that way."

Hruothban's expression turns to stone. He shares a glance with Cleaved-Lip and Beard-Face. "They took Ilofn and Oddoutril some hours ago."

"Oh," I say. That's all I _can_ say.

An ill shadow settles over the group of prisoners. Their terse, sullen faces magnify my diseased terror back at me. I can smell sour wounds yet to come, phantom limbs, missing teeth, nights filled by beating your head with bloodied fists, fingernails tearing at one's own throat in the hollow where future means an unquenchable red flood.

They don't know it yet. I can see it in their steady, unblinking eyes. The determined jaws set against what enemy they think may come. Enemies make threats and ultimatums, right? Enemies are to be fought. The fools don't know. They're still worried about honor.

_Honor_.

There is honor in being a warrior. There is honor in being a _dead_ warrior. There is honor, even, in being a thrall. The trick is: don't scream too much. If one does scream too much, there's still hope. There's still honor: Make them kill you.

_The Chitauri won't kill you_.

Curious. They're curious.

They like to explore.

Jittery scrabbling inside my arms. Inside my chest. I can't breathe.

You're fools. You're all fools. I'm not you. I'm not here with you.

"Slave?" Ilda says.

What was and what is rights itself. The trembly drowned feeling sucks away, replaced by iron heat. I surface.

"Yes?" I can taste bitter acid.

"You said that you were an enchanter," she murmurs. Even when addressing a thrall Ilda sounds apologetic. "Can you—maybe—enchant yourself to climb up the wall and along the ceiling?" She looks away, and I follow her eyeline up our smooth, cylindrical prison. This dungeon was an alchemical tank in a former life. The high walls are polished habrium, too smooth to climb without magic. Eight meters up there is a sealed hatch, but no doors or windows. Dusty bones, gravel, the water bowl, and the suspicious liquid tell me that the Chitauri are not the first to make use of this place as a prison.

"He should send a warrior," Cleaved-Lip says. "It shouldn't be a woman or a thrall."

"But—" Ilda starts.

Hruothban slaps my shoulder. "Vyir, my new friend, can you enchant _me_ to climb up the wall?"

_Loki, can you make their swords into paper?_ A different voice. A different time._ Brother, think of it! They will swing at us and be astonished when their blades come apart in their hands. _

"You don't understand how it works," I say. "Magic isn't wishes; I can't make you able to climb solid habrium just because I might want to."

"Why not?" Cleaved-Lip demands. He crosses his arms and stares down at me.

"Oh, goody," I sneer. "Here's a lesson in magic for you: I can paint runes on your bare feet and hands to make you stick to the wall, yes. But the moment your enchanted skin touches a surface we'd have to cut off your hands and feet to get you free again. Shall we try it?"

The warriors fall grim.

"Could you lift someone up by magic?" Ilda says. "I told them lifting things up by magic is only for small things, like moving levers or summoning coils. But do you think-?"

"No," I say. "The forces at play would break your bones."

"Can you paint your sticking runes on a length of rope?" Hruothban says, mildly. "We could throw the rope's end up to the ceiling and simply climb to the hatch."

I swallow an irritated retort. "And where, pray tell me, would we get enough rope?"

Hruothban plucks at his undertunic with a theatrical thumb and forefinger.

That's . . . not actually a terrible idea. I'm impressed. "_If_ we can find a weight heavy enough to stabilize the throw," I say. "You'll have a limited number of tries. We can wrap the weight in an extra cloth and write the runes on that, so if you miss we can untie the cloth and try again. The runes will bind irrevocably to whatever they touch: The floor. The wall. Another part of the rope. Your face."

Hruothban flashes a brilliant, happy smile. "I won't miss."

Naturally not.

He rolls to his feet and raises a fist to rally the other prisoners to us. Our little council meeting is over. "We will use tight formations," he commands. "If we have the element of surprise—"

"Before anyone tries to climb up into the middle of a Chitauri fun-fest," I say, "I'm going to cast an illusion to make them believe we've already escaped. That should scatter them; confuse them."

"You have grown too accustomed to the Elves," Cleaved-Lip sneers. "We are not afraid like your masters."

I re-tune my brain to Channel Idiot. "There _will_ be glorious battle against them," I promise, heading off the Second Worst Idea in twenty minutes. The first being, Let's paint eternal sticking runes on our bare feet and plant our bare feet on unbreakable habrium. "I _myself_ was privileged to hear of it when the mighty Thor Odinson slew a great number from their host on Midgard-"

"They are the ones who attacked Midgard?" Hruothban's smile turns to glass. "This the army once marshaled by the traitor, Prince Loki."

Nice.

A clamoring yell sounds from the others. Shouts and oaths echo from the smooth walls; competing voices roar against our metal prison: Vows that will take off the heads from each so-called Chitauri, promises about how our captors should die and in what order, how many generations will be wet upon our swords.

"Let them die without honor!" Beard-Face howls.

I prowl up to Hruothban's side. He is the center of this frenzied storm, showing off a bicep in frozen, obligatory rally-pose.

He no longer looks half so happy.

_Curious eyes._

"You're planning to fight the Chitauri as an Asgardian warrior," I say. "If you do, you and your band will die."

Without moving his ready arm, without faltering in the slightest, Hruothban flicks his gaze toward me. "What makes you say this thing?" He speaks in an undertone, so the riot around us won't hear.

"What do you do with foes?" I sigh. "You fight them, you kill them, you move on before the dead ones can summon the rest." I take a breath. I can taste my own heart. "The Chitauri are a hive mind. As soon as you kill one, the others will know exactly where you are and how you fight. They will swarm you."

Color bleeds from his face as fast as if I've cut his throat. "You see it now, don't you. They won't advance on you in regular battle lines, but neither will they fight you as guerillas. This is a new form of warfare."

Hruothban says, "How did Prince Thor fight them?"

"He didn't. A Chitauri puppet opened a hole in space between their home and Midgard, so all Prince Thor and his mortal warband had to do was close the hole. The battle ended prematurely."

Hruothban hesitates. "You are talking about Prince Loki. I do not think you are right, calling him a puppet."

No, I wasn't. I bypass this, however, without comment. "Listen, the Chitauri waiting to get through to Midgard were unable to continue the attack _and_ the Chitauri trapped on Midgard were cut off from the hive mind, which rendered them catatonic. An elegant solution. The battle ended without lengthy bloodshed."

"The hive is on Vorsgard?" he says.

White noise erupts behind my eyes. I see empty space.

Hruothban says, "If they must fight within the same realm as their—what, king?-then you are telling me that this king is in our realm."

"No."

"You said that they are catatonic if the—"

A bottomless pit opens just below my ribs and whatever was inside of me, comprising me, is ripped through. My skin is a loose bag around shapeless blood and bile. Screaming. There is screaming in my head. It isn't me.

Hruothban is no longer pretending to join the in his band's martial dance. He is a dark, nebulous shape to my right. He says, somewhere, "Could the cowardly Prince Loki have opened a second portal before facing his death on Svartalfheim?" It doesn't matter. I'm not listening to him.

_Vorsgard_.

Vorsgard?

How have they come to Vorsgard?

More importantly, why?

A few scouts I could understand. But _this_ . . ?

Political currents whisper just out of sight. I can feel the shape of things unfolding many decades ago:

The Other laying plans to invade Midgard to seize back the Tesseract. How, before his Chitauri ran across me lost in the dark? What would they have done, instead?

The Convergence.

A sickened tremor worms into my stomach.

They would have plotted to march through the Converging gates between realms in full force. They would have slaughtered whatever mortals lay in their path.

My heart grabs higher up my throat. I cannot suppress a shudder.

I fucked that up for them, of course. The Tesseract wasn't on Midgard by the time the Convergence came around.

No.

No, they had to recast their nets for deeper waters. They have to steal back the Tesseract from somewhere more dangerous: shining, lovely, golden, glorious Asgard.

A hand closes around my left wrist tight enough that I yell.

"_Enchanter_," Hruothban says. He releases me.

I am fizzing. My skull swarms with carrion flies.

Hruothban says, "These Chitauri, do you think they have honor enough to wish to kill whatsoever killed their leader?"

"What?" His words make no sense.

"I wonder if they are after revenge," he say. "Prince Loki died on Svartalfheim. Could they blame Asgard for his death and want war with us to reclaim his honor?"

_Once war is declared a realm has the right to reclaim its honor in battle_. That is what Frigga said.

Idiot, idiot, stupid honor.

Here, though, is an opening.

I seize Hruothban's undershirt, wrenching my face into earnest dismay. "Revenge on Asgard! I hope you are not correct. Never mind our battle with they who would dare take us captive; we must escape to warn the city!"

Hruothban gathers our warrior's council from the bloodthirsty riot: Beard-Face, Cleaved-Lip, and Ilda Tongue-Tied. They go silent once the situation is explained.

"Let me cast the illusion that we've already escaped," I say. "When our captors open the hatch to see where we've gone we must dispatch them quickly. There is no glory to be had if we die and leave Asgard unprotected. Strike hard, strike fast, strike lethal. _One_ hit. Don't draw the Chitauri into open battle. Hide and run. Kill only when you have to. Once we make the surface, head for the bifrost site."

"These Chitauri will think we are cowards," Beard-Face says.

"We would be cowards," Cleaved-Lip adds.

"I would rather my enemies think me a coward than betray Asgard," I say.

"The Enchanter is right." Hruothban stares them in the eyes, one and then the next, puffing up to corral his pack. "If we fight now we risk leaving Asgard at the mercies of these creatures. Sometimes it is better to run than lose everything should we fall. Today is not a day to die."

"Your battle will be on Asgard," I agree—fancy that. "The entire city will witness your bravery. Today, however, it is time to prove your loyalty."

"Loyalty?" This does not sit well with Cleaved-Lip.

"Yes." I smirk. "Would you have your ancestors know that an elven thrall bears more loyalty than the sons of Asgard?"

"Never!"

Hruothban orders his band to be silent while I set about laying my illusion. The Chitauri who took me captive did not recognize me; there are ways to prevent a sorcerer from using magic and, happily, this tim e around none have been applied. A few deft charms erase our sounds. A hush falls over the dungeon which has nothing to do with warrior discipline. Another charm vanishes our shadows. A third removes our ripples from the wet floor.

Hruothban takes a practice step and, to his evident delight, finds that he has become the most surefooted assassin in Nine Realms. "This sorcery is eerie. Under your spell, a warrior might walk into his enemy's hall undetected."

"But that would be dishonorable!" I cry.

Hruothban shakes his head. "Thrall, when this day is ended, give to me your masters' names. I will pay for your release. Such power should not be in the hands of the Elves."

This would delight Vyir, so I play my part as a grateful servant: lavishing praise upon the oh-so-noble warriors of Asgard, pledging to serve faithfully in all their endeavors . . . that sort of self-flagellating rubbish.

Ilda appears without warning at my side. "I have never seen this enchantment before," she murmurs to the dead space behind me. "Is this magic you learned from the elves?"

Who remembers? The wrong sort of Elves or the imprisoned sort of Vanir or books on dark magic I lifted, bought, or traded for in some unregulated hollow at the far reaches of space. I had the advantage of my title, of course: I could exchange my false face for my real one and lead Black Tower enforcers to such places, in the event that my contact had a stubborn streak, and confiscate what books of intrigue I could not barter for. Those were interesting days: raking up minor glory ridding the universe of dark sorcery and, in my off-hours, learning how to do better what my targets could not. I am by no means the first sorcerer who dedicated centuries to prying apart the wrong spellbooks, after all. The Dark Arts, the Dire Arts, the Mortuary Arts, Necromancy, Sanguine Rites, Pale Spells . . . it all blends together in the end.

"Oh, no," I tell Ilda. "From Nithavellir. They use this magic for insulating living quarters, you see? The mines and industry can be quite imposing there."

I cast my invisibility spells before she can ask any more questions. Light remaps the dungeon, bending around us to reform within the habrium cylinder littered with its skeletal debris and foul water as a perfect recreation—minus a dozen Aesir and myself.

In the pool below my illusion the world is a messy, flickering afterimage. My hands are nebulous impressions in a pulsating soup. The warriors are sketchy shapes, phantasmic holes where magic resonates beyond the visible spectrum—ghosts. We are ghosts.

Residual, scalding _want_ speeds the blood in my temples to a surging ache. What I would have given to have my magic the last time I came across the Chitauri. This all-consuming, expanding need fills me from scalp to heels, until my lungs strain for air against unobtainable desire. If only I had been Loki, Prince of Asgard instead of a squalling bundle of severed nerves.

Freed from any chance discovery via poorly-timed inspections, Hruothban orders four warriors besides himself to strip down to base undergarmets. I am the final person required to give up my goods for the group's benefit, being the owner of a near-indestructible biosuit whose quality is—could you believe it?-high enough to befit royalty. Fancy that. Ilda, being a woman, is assigned position as rope-maker while the warriors regroup to strategize. Ilda, being an enchantress, binds our clothing together with a few simple spells. She tries to catch my attention to continue our conversation about how I'm not a dark sorcerer, but I avoid her to join Hruothban.

When my warrior friend gives his order I conjure another throwing knife set for his fellows' use. The warband fans out to encompass the dungeon, making practice swipes with my enchanted blades or leaping in place to loosen muscles. Ilda passes Hruothban our rope, and I find a nice unobtrusive shadow from which to observe. A cold fist sinks through my ribcage at the thought of seeing the Chitauri again. I grind my teeth together.

Hruothban circles the the waterlogged floor. He settles upon a ham-sized chunk of rock, wraps it in a spare undertunic, and has Ilda spells this to the rope's end for weight.

We are ready.

Hruothban gives me a nod. He passes the boot into my hands without a word.

"You don't want to make a practice throw?" I demand.

He grins at me.

I say, "Once I paint these runes there is no failsafe. If the boot ricochets without landing it may stick to a wall. You'll have to climb the rope to untie it before trying again."

He gives me another thousand-gold-piece smile, visible even through my ghostly illusion. Oh, very well.

I spell my index finger in casting ink and draw a Curse of Binding to the cloth's top face. Hruothban lifts the result from my grip. He paces back to the dungeon's center, just left from the hatch eight meters above, and twirls the rope like a sling. When he lets loose, the cloth-wrapped boot slams into the habrium ceiling with a deep, echoing _thrumm_.

And doesn't fall.

I let out a breath. Muffled cheering erupts among his warband. Hruothban waves them to silence. Huh. The son of a Jotun whore did it.

The stage is set. Lights down. Curtain up.

I fabricate an illusion that the bifrost blasts into our prison. Prismatic light explodes in a brilliant flash, which our captors cannot help but see.

The icy knot which used to be my internal organs evaporates into an acidic cloud. I am an empty casing with a cold, impermeable wall digging into my spine.

Footsteps clump above.

I have just drawn the Chitauri to me, on purpose.

I am a small, in-Aesir thing curled in on its own body in a prison many worlds from home. I am two beings: the one pressed to a wall, and the creature huddled inside.

The hatch opens.

A blue searchbeam bisects the gloom, sweeping the prison's contours like a tongue. The light bends around Hruothban and his warriors while giving all appearance that it continues its original trajectory, and falls to a damp stop inches shy from my toes. I creep tighter to the wall.

Three Chitauri warriors drop through the hole into our dungeon. They are hideous symmetrical constructs fused from tissue and armor. All three carry plasma rifles.

Hruothban signals his warband to position themselves. He shadows the Chitauri leader, who is a monstrous abomination in bruised, corpse-color plate mail. In utter silence, Hruothban glides above the rank dungeon floor on easy, confidant feet. His powerful stride brings him close enough to strike in a few graceful heartbeats; he unsheathes Ilda's invisible dagger and, with a quick, almost careless precision, drags his weapon across the Chitauri's throat. The creature wheezes as slimy ichor splashes its front. A followthrough stroke shreds it heart—or would, if Chitauri had hearts. They seemed so curious about mine I'm inclined to think they don't. It backhands Hruothban into the ground.

We can't have that.

I collide with the Chitauri leader, get a lungful of imminent pain, and snake my arms around its ugly, synthetic body. When I rip my hands backward, my knife cleaves through its wrists. The creature drives its shoulder into my collarbone. The walls invert—I'm flat to the floor, hands tangled in a plasma rifle, reptilian weight on top of me. The Chitauri draws back one arm and its armored elbow cracks my skull. The rifle is wrenched from my grasp. I hear it skitter across the floor.

The _smell—_

The cold, alien, primal weight. Its breath gushes over my face and neck. Sweet smells. Chemical solvents. Sterile room. I jerk my right leg up, trying to catch it in a vulnerable joint, and my knee punches soft tissue. The Chitauri vaults into the air—falls as Hruothban snags it by one shoulder and finishes his work.

Across the room, Cleaved-Lip trips the monster he's stalking while Beard-Face tears the rifle from its hands. A mob grapples with the downed Chitauri, rending it apart—the third is missing.

The fight broke my illusion. I reapply my false face before anyone notices. I am panting, half-blind, covered in black ichor.

Hruothban appears above me, flashing his mute smile. He holds out his hand.

This—_this_—am I taken for so weak that I need help standing up? I roll upright in a flurry without his aid, thank you, swiping slime from my jaw.

"Our invisibility is gone," Hruothban says. If I have offended him, he doesn't let on. He is smiling again.

The dungeon is quiet, now, even without the muting spells. The second Chitauri is motionless at the room's far end, but the final is still . . . No. There it is. It's being removed from the floor's center once piece at a time while Ilda stands nearby, wringing her hands together in her lap and staring at her thumbs. She sees me watching and, sounding somewhat embarrassed, says, "There was a faulty charge knot in his armor. I redirected it. I thought his armor would seize up. I didn't know he would . . ."

"It," I say, without rancor. "They are not _he_s."

The exploded Chitauri is no easier to look at than its whole-ish counterparts. I have to inhale and exhale twice through my nose before recasting our charms and invisibility. This isn't the sort of magic one wants to get wrong.

Hruothban and his pals, Beard-Face and Cleaved-Lip, shoulder the plasma rifles. They shimmy up the rope and Ilda follows, tying her gown around her knees for easier ascent. She seems to realize too late that the hatch is already gone, and tries to cover by pretending that she is helping fight our way to escape.

And—why not? Except for the blow to our warband's pride, a mechanical-minded enchantress could make a pretty effective weapon against the bio-electrical Chitauri.

She and Hruothban kill two more who were waiting above.

"How long until the hive mind finds us?" Hruothban asks, once I have followed the others up to surface level. Ilda unspells our rope, and we dress in hasty silence.

I give my warrior friend a sideways glance. "They've already found us."

He hooks a finger under his left gauntlet for an experimental tug. His face registers nothing I've said.

"Now you run," I explain.

He grins.

Beard-Face examines his rifle. The warriors are silent.

Ice trickles into my stomach.

Hruothban claps both hands on the woman in breeches. "Fiostla, my good friend, you must lead the other back to the bifrost site. Tell Odin-King what we have discovered."

"I would stay."

Hruothban shakes his head. "Asgard must be made aware. You are in command now. Lur, Braeggvild, and I are going to rescue our sword-brothers."

_Curious curious eyes._

I can feel the captives as an extension of myself. What were their names? There are two people the Chitauri took. I can _feel_ them in my head, under my skin, in my throat, fusing _then_ with _now_. They are pressure inside my chest I cannot shake.

Hruothban finishes making his good-byes. I stagger forward, one slack foot at a time, to interrupt.

"I'm coming too," I say. "But we'll need to hurry."


	7. A Way In

A/N: Well, I feel a bit silly. I posted the wrong version of this chapter yesterday. I completely forgot a good seven hundred words that were supposed to go after the line break. Fixed it!

* * *

As afternoon shrouds us in a dull white haze, we follow Cleaved-Lip—Braeggvild to his father, apparently—away from our alchemical prison deeper into the industrial complex. Our dungeon sat at the edge of a steep hillside whose base is wiped away in rippling, white fog. Other complexes rise beyond that ephemeral ocean, here and there, as islands in a blank sea of nothing. Pipes, grids, rails, carts, and staircases spread out above and below us like a metal spiderweb. There is an old factory tower rising on our left, and to our right are massive habrium cylinders much like the one we just vacated. The natural world has encroached with the humidity, littering the habrium walkways with simple mosses that form mosaic carpets underfoot. No clanking, booming, billowing, or subtle sighs permeate the derelict air; what ancient, eroding machinery lies all around are clenched tight in rigor mortis. The complex survives through its barest skeleton; this sprawling creation is at least eight thousand years old.

"What would these Chitauri do with prisoners?" Hruothban says in a low voice. "Question them for Asgard's weaknesses? Ilofn and Oddoutril will give them nothing. Prince Loki's army will have to kill them."

The Aesir, for the most part, do not take prisoners. Enemies are to be slain in glorious battle, or put to work as thralls. Separating two captives from the rest makes no sense in this mindset. Any other possibilities—trying to divide and sway weaker-willed prisoners onto one's side, for example—are dishonorable. If dishonorable things happen to Asgard's prisoners, as they must from time to time, I was never made privy.

"Tracks." Braeggvild stops at the edge of a filthy slope, beside a horse-sized pipe crammed with poisonous-smelling mushrooms. Hruothban cheerfully drops to one knee beside him, the better to examine what is—I am not lying—an unremarkable green-brown moss identical to every other mossy spot in this haunted wasteland.

"They will fear for their lives," Lur vows. "Mother Chitauris will warn their sons of us for generations to come."

Braeggvild's cleaved lip twitches in a ghoulish scowl. "These are low-level repulsor scores. They are airborne. They've gone this way at some speed, maybe a meter from the ground."

Hruothban rights himself and thumps Braeggvild's back. "Show me."

We take the slope at a run, ziggzagging as the incline funnels out into a slippery depression where the ground is more water than mud. Primordial slime slathers my boots. Scummy water splashes up my knees. Braeggvild forges ahead heedless to the muck, presumably picking up a trail from the whiskery roots that strangle the depression's crumbling walls. Hruothban, Lur, and I wade after him. To my eyes this tattle-tale vegetation resembles nothing except for possibly Lur's overenthusiastic facial hair . . . I wonder if tracking is a skill I should acquire for my life in hiding. I might need to defend myself from marauders. Or give them cause to defend themselves from me.

A huge dark hole opens in the roots along the left wall: a tunnel descending into the rotten ground. Severed pipes poke from the gaping subterranean depths. More piping criss-crosses the underground ceiling, walls, and floors as a filthy, metal catacomb.

No—a honeycomb.

My heart shrinks. I have seen structures like this before, only cleaner, neater. Built into an asteroid field.

If this old industrial tunnel looks familiar to me, it would have looked like home to our quarry.

"They are in that," I say.

Hruothban squelches to a stop, ahead.

Braeggvild says, "What makes you so sure?"

"Ah!" Lur says. "A good place for hiding."

"Check it," Hruothban orders.

Braeggvild approaches the tunnel, staring at the ground plastered around the black entrance. Whatever he sees gives him pause. He hesitates a full dozen heartbeats before saying, "Your new thrall is right."

"Of course he is!" Hruothban thumps a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Summon a light, Enchanter. We will seek these cowards in their den."

"What part of _they will swarm you_ do you not understand?" I say. My heart is trying to slither up my throat agin. "Come here. I'll draw a rune on you to give you Sight in darkness."

* * *

Open space is not a good area for long-term residency. Every hour in the Void between stars is a small eternity, each eternity piled one upon the next in relentless crushing waves. Imagine yourself, right here. Or in your room, better.

Your room.

Now, take away the furniture. Take away your home. Take away your flatmates and their cars that never work, especially in the rain. Take away your office and the people you pass on the streets, or speak to on the telephone. All the schools are closed. All cinemas are silent. No more London. No more California. All your friends are gone. All your family is gone. There are no more police. No receptionists. No Internet. Your children are gone. Your marriage is gone. Your world is gone. Your system is gone. The only person left in all the universe is _you_.

Your loneliness is a second person inside you, wearing your shell as its skin. You are a hollow mask. Your isolation is so full that you cease to exist.

What is the point of language? You speak a language of _one_.

Words mean nothing at all outside your own head. Everything in your mind—everything you can think of—is gone forever. All that's left in the cosmos is inside your own hateful, damnable memories; here and gone in a thought.

You _ache_ to be able to vanish in a thought. If everything in the cosmos can disappear in an instant, why can't you?

You can't.

There is no un-doing. There is no going back.

_Make it stop_.

Soon, words and phrases start sticking out in your mind. You realize you can play games with sounds: making noise that means nothing—what does it matter?; taking one word that has a very nice texture and making a song out of it: starting low and going high, or starting high and meandering low and then going high again, like a tolling bell. Bells—hilltops, churches, brides, white, fog, city, light, nightclub, people. Walking through grass and trees. You talk to yourself because if you don't talk to yourself, the Cosmos is too empty to bear.

Then, after a long long while, you start imagining that if you can only believe hard enough you can _hear_ the singing of birds and whispering grasses. You can _make_ people appear beside you. You won't be alone any more. And—_oh—_that . . . to not be alone with your own thoughts. To get away from the creature wrapped in your own head.

When the Chitauri pulled me from my endless drifting, I thought I had been rescued. I remember lights booming in the deep dark. Pinprick stars receded under a real, moving glow. This was an act of creation on par with the start of Time. With so many eternities spent screaming in my head, I never knew if I really _really_ shouted when grasping mechanical arms clamped ice prongs around my boney chest. So long had passed since I had seen any light. My starved brain couldn't make sense of the movement, the touch. I goggled up at the solid metal bulk tugging me into its belly without comprehending the ship.

If I'm not wholly mad now, I certainly was then. Lights and movement—and sound: the gorgeous catastrophic energy of _sound_, crashing booming breathing being—smashed me into a billion little pieces. Nothing I witnessed made any connection at all. Bright glowy-things and wall-things and floors and objects, any objects, alarms and voices—living moving real _real_ alive beings—entered my cosmos for the first time in an ocean of eternities. I was birthed anew in metal claws. I flailed my stick-arms and kicked against my spacefaring cradle. I re-entered the universe as a wailing, sobbing infant in a thousand-year-old body. I was entirely senseless.

And I was theirs.

The tunnel into Vorsgard plunges down for almost two kilometers. Flattened habrium pipes lay steps for us to ease the way, but the metal is treacherous in a sharp grade half-buried with dirt and vegetable scum. Hruothban creeps ahead in the red shadows, beckoning us forward one secluded cover at a time. I crawl, face down, pressed so tight to the dirt that the brown stink of pipe and ground, crusted mud and green-brown carpet fills my soul with a pungent acrid grave-smell. The odor is almost a tactile, manacle presence but worse, underneath it all, is a familiar reptilian musk.

My throat spasms. I squeeze my right hand in a fist. My bare fingers ache. I want my invisible bag.

I don't know how to explain my invisible bag's _contents_, but between fantastically having the Gauntlet and not having the Gauntlet I am willing to take the risk. I'd think up a good lie afterward.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Magic. Wishes.

_Brother! Can you turn their swords into paper?_

I left the bag under a wall. I don't think it can be discovered, inside a ruin within ruins, but I must retrieve the bag before we leave Vorsgard. If the Chitauri find it we are lost.

If the Chitauri find me, I am lost.

I force my eyes open. Forward, forward.

I hate the two prisoners we're coming after.

Why did I agree to come? I could have dug up my bag and teleported from the bifrost site, through the gap in Vorsgard's wards, anywhere I wanted to go. Back to Midgard, maybe. Go get a stiff drink.

Red red florescent pain silhouettes the two men, in my head. I can't push them away. I can't leave them down here.

I want to.

I can always magic myself invisible if we are spotted. Let Hruothban, Lur, and Braeggvild buy my ticket to safety.

Rock pillars grow from the ground ahead, separating the downward slat from a flat area—a horizontal cavern. Hruothban drops behind a pillar's base and waves us to his side. Braeggvild, Lur, and I huddle up beside him in a breathless hush. Bioluminescence spills from the cavern's toothy opening in a sickly blue wave, slicking the flattened pipes in a sheen like sweat. I am shivering again.

"I will go first," Hruothban says. He knocks his plasma rifle into guard position. "Enchanter, you stick close to my left and provide magic aid should I require any. Stay within range so I can cover you."

"Or I can make us invisible," I say. This may be dishonorable, but Thor and his friends learned not to mind me sharing their adventures whenever Odin's son decided we should have a happy bonding experience—my skills allowed us to walk right into Laufey-King's palace on Jotunheim without being caught.

"We should not use his magic in place of skill," Braeggvild warns, but he sounds hesitant. Honor or no honor, there _is _something gratifying about being able to slip into a enemy's stronghold _literally_ invisible.

Hruothban flashes his broad smile. This is still a game to him. A glorious adventure. "Vyir, my very good friend, make us invisible should we find ourselves in an emergency. Such a time may come when we are very grateful for magic. Otherwise, save your reserves."

That was tactful. I give him a _Yes, my lord_ as befits some squashed dullard like Vyir. My pulse is fizzing in my ears. It hurts to breathe.

"Braegg," Hruothban orders next; "Lur: follow us at three-pace-tail. We are eyes first, claws as last resort."

Hruothban thumps my arm. That touch is almost too much. I recoil.

We head for the bioluminescence, staying low and watching the cavern for movement. Hruothban selects a route that keeps us close to the left wall, sheltering us from prying eyes—at least from that direction. Mineral deposits crust the ceiling and floor in uneven serrated fangs. A sweet stench like overripe figs drifts between the rocky jaws, filling my lungs with disembodied horror. I can smell my prison down here.

Hruothban ducks behind a low outcropping and drags me after. Although the cavern continues ahead, he points to a gap that leads down a steeper plunge into a sticky recess. We ease along this side path inch by inch until we're well out of sight. I almost bolt when the ground slurps at my boots. When I put a hand on a stalagmite for balance, my palm comes away wet with slime. The cave floor is coated in transparent ooze.

I cast two more silencing spells: one for me and one for Hruothban, lest our sticky footsteps alert anything that might be listening.

_If they catch me_ . . .

_If they catch me_ . . .

My chest hurts.

Images race past: what they look like, what they sound like, how it will feel to vanish from sight, how the ground with clank underfoot as I dash for the surface. They aren't ambush predators. They'll show themselves first. They enjoy intimidation. If I prepare for the moment, maybe I won't be caught in pathetic stupor the second time.

I don't want to know how I must look to Hruothban and the warriors behind us: a trembling, broken coward. A ruin. I am not the person I was before I fell.

Ten meters farther on the ooze grows thick underfoot. The slime congeals into a white wrinkled dough half a meter high, filling our path from one side to the other. Black pustules the size of butterfruits swell from the slick expanse, hard-surfaced and darkly engorged.

A tremor races down my arms.

Hruothban's back tenses. He's evaluating this new sight as a potential threat.

"It's waste," I say. "This is a byproduct from outfitting a weapon they call the Leviathan. The pustules are parasites that thrive in charged, nutrient-rich compounds."

Hruothban does not move. "Can it see us?"

"The parasites?"

He gives me a sloppy smile.

"The parasites don't have eyes."

That's good enough for him. Hruothban strides toward the ooze. I grab his wrist.

"Don't touch them! They . . . secrete a powerful acid if disturbed."

Hruothban turns around to regard me. A pinched line forms between his brows. His unspoken question etches his angular face with sudden mistrust.

"The Elves," I invent, "captured one. I got a fairly good look at it. As I have said: I will share any information I can so long as you ask me nothing to compromise my masters. Even after your pay for my return to Asgard I must maintain this request."

He waves this honor-bound blithering aside, but it serves to satisfy him. We start forward with maintained care, pausing only so he can signal my warning about the parasites to Braeggvild and Lur.

The line between his brows does not abate.

The over-ripe fig smell increases as we step up onto the dough. Hruothban's agile, well-muscled stride navigates the dough's minefield without hesitation. I . . . find a route more cautiously. There is a barb-wire fence inside my head eight times larger than any individual pustule. Any time I get too close, phantom pain crackles up my right hand.

"Say! Did your science tutors ever give you starch to play with?" I say to him, to take my mind off of everything we're doing.

"Science tutors?" Hruothban laughs. "Do you take me for a councilor's son? No, no. I went to the common school like everybody else."

"This stuff we're ankle-deep in reminds me of the day my brother and I had fun making war with wet starch." I can hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it's not me talking. "You can turn starch into a goo with something—I don't remember now—and it stays more-or-less solid so long as you keep it moving. We were supposed to play nice and then get on to the next lesson, but I put a handful on his seat when he wasn't looking and after he sat down—no force alive could stop us. He climbed on my chest and raked it through my hair, so I had to smack some in his face. I think they were only able to pry us apart after we were both blind, deaf, gagging, and had starch dripping from our shorts. That was a very good day."

Hruothban nimbly skirts a pustule. His passage kicks up a slimy chunk that slaps a monster. Black liquid erupts from the parasite in a steaming, foul-smelling pool. Acid boils through the dough, leaving behind a blistered, weeping ruin that almost looks like melted skin.

I speed up to avoid the runoff and fall in place closer by his side. "Say! I wouldn't worry for your shield-brothers. They will be happy we are coming for them. Imagine if we abandoned them. What if we had left them here, to an uncertain fate? Imagine if we never bothered to come looking. What sort of people would we be, do you think? If we never bothered to come looking. Do you think we would be right? Would you be worthy of a red cloak, if you have a red cloak? You're not a member of the War Council, Hruothban, are you?"

He makes a sharp gesture at me, a wordless warning that I should be silent. His face is tense, almost incredulous.

Anyway.

We seemed to have arrived at the ooze's point of origin. The mass under our feet has thickened to cement. Above us, the stalactites run heavy with long streamers of glistening transparent waste. There is a cavity in the ceiling between rocky formations, looking up into industrial double doors.

"What is above us?" Hruothban is so quiet that I have to lean forward to hear him.

A hanger, I suspect. If this passageway is thick with cybernetic waste, there must be lots of nasty playthings up above. The Chitauri will be readying their invasion for Asgard. I make Vyir say, "How in Nine Wretched Realms do I know?"

Lur and Braeggvild reach our position a few moment later, and join their leader's examination of our way forward. Lur locks and unlocks his plasma rifle, and Braeggvild voices what I can _smell_ the warriors thinking: "Can we blast through those doors?"

"That looks like a waste chute." Hruothban sounds hesitant. "I suspect it is alarmed."

"Good time we see a battle," Lur grunts.

"What did I say about staying away from direct combat?" I protest.

Hruothban turns to Braeggvild. "I could have Vyir cast his magic to make us invisible. We could scout their stronghold until we find the dungeon. If the door _is _alarmed—"

"Od and Ilofn may be badly injured by the time we reach them," I say. "We need to find a straight route, now."

"Any idea where we are in these creatures' household?" Hruothban asks Braeggvild.

Our tracker has no idea. None of them have any idea. _I_ haven't any idea. The Chitauri don't build in systematic boxes, the way we Aesir do. They tunnel deep into solid rock and hollow out caverns for storage, housing, barracks, dungeons, and whatever else they need. The result is a scrambled maze filled with disjointed pockets. Good luck navigating that, even without the labyrinth's sadistic inhabitants. The dungeon could be eight hundred meters left, or three meters down, or back the way we came but at the bottom of a vertical drop.

"I think this is as close as we're going to get," Hruothban relents. He aims a cocky smirk at Braeggvild and Lur, who spread out in anticipation for a fight. "On three, we fire into the doors. Stand offtarget just in case anything hostile comes through. Keep firing until I give the clear."

"We can't fight them," I say.

"We have no other choice."

That's not true. We have one other choice.

"Here," I say, "give me a rifle." The trick is to reach for one anyway, as if you have every right. Lur passes me his before I can yank it from his arms.

"Are you an artillery expert, Thrall?" he suggests.

I give him a big, innocent smile. "Hah. I wish. No, I'm going to re-spell it like Ilda did so we can send off a seismic shock, vaporizing slime and doors in the process. That way you can save the charges on the other two. We'll need all the firepower we can get trying to reach that dungeon. Hruothban, when I'm finished making this an explosive you can do the honors."

They wait in terse anticipation for me to finish getting my dirty magic all over their pretty bang-toy.

"It's times like this," Lur says, with his eyes on the industrial doors, "I think maybe I wouldn't mind having a mage as a fellow combatant."

"Oh, truly?" I check the rifle's power setting.

"Not all the time, mind you—not in place of honest fighting, but-"

No one is facing me.

I point the muzzle at Hruothban's head.

Hruothban says, "Have you ever been in combat, Vyir?"

"Many times." I pull the trigger. The rifle hums in my arms. The flash is uncomfortably bright. There is a smell like burned wires.

Braeggvild and Lur go next, one after the other, while they're trying to figure out what happened.

I spin around and fire up into the waste chute, so the alarms will sound.

Then I have to sniff the ends of my fingers, because that burned smell is a little concerning.

I take Hruothban and Braeggvild's rifles for safekeeping, pat them down so I can recover my throwing knives, step back a good two meters—staying clear from the starchy mass and the parasites, because those damn things really do pack a jolt—and recast an invisibility spell upon myself.

The Chitauri will be here soon. The Chitauri, the reptilian stink, the curious eyes. All I have to do is wait. Wait, be silent, don't freeze.

Now we can find out where the dungeon is.


	8. Interlude: A Lesson on Perspective

There was a time when I wanted to be Bor Burison. I tied a red throw rug around my neck and stuffed a make-believe sword through my belt every morning before our governess could get me to come down for breakfast. Bor was the wisest, most ferocious, most praiseworthy Asgardian _ever_. When I grew up, I wanted to just like him. He was, everybody said, the greatest hero who ever lived. My father's father.

I practiced my victory pose and pranced up and down the hall swirling my red rug cape. I strutted to my lessons because in my head this is what Bor Burison would do, swung my sword at the servants, and developed a morbid interest in Father's hearth. Mother wove me a remarkably patient story about how the large vicious-looking plants in her garden were actually Bor's staunchest allies. Allies, she insisted, are not to be attacked. Father took to calling me Bor even though I hadn't asked him to, which was nice—and which lasted just up until I tried to command Odin Borson and then I was Loki Odinson instead.

Glass orbs, bread loaves, and round-ish knicknacks were all unsafe if they were in grasping range. Head-sized things had to be held aloft so that I could display my conquest to proper loving applause. The barbaric Nine Realms had to be put to heel. Rebellions had to be conquered in glorious war. I made an irritating mess of myself with Mother's red skin paints for blood.

My bedroom in the nursery's dual suite had a life-size model Eldjotun in it by the toy chest, with plastine black armor and an enchanted fiery beard. This model was very good for striking with my toy sword. Thor had to be kept out of my room by our governesses because nobody could get him to stop kicking the Eldjotun, which made me mad. Not because he was kicking my model—I'd have been only too happy making him a war leader in my army if he thought to use a sword instead of his foot—but because an angry round brother kicking my Fire Giant destroyed the illusion. Illusion was very important. Faux-realism was very important. One kills an enemy by attacking him with a proper weapon, not sulking up to him and lobbing a boot at his shin.

Thor didn't care about playing pretend. By age seven I towered over him, could outpace him in combat class, could out-run and out-jump-and out-do him in the field and the scholarly arts as well. While I converted my room into an alter to Bor Burison he tortured the servants and yelled at everybody. I grew like a prized weed: straight up. His growth seemed to be building at the roots without putting out any stem at all; his future mass piled on as excess weight and this earned him the ire of our fighting masters.

"Thor will grow," sighed Mother.

"Thor will grow," soothed Father.

Here is our picture that summer: One son going through a Bor phase and one son who "will grow".

When Father took us to visit Alfheim I wheedled Mother into letting me bring my Bor costume. Father took me aside and, on bended knee so he could look me in the eye, told me that I could be Bor in my room but not at the dinner table. The people of Alfheim wanted to see Prince Loki, he explained, not Bor.

The people of Alfheim must be idiots, I thought.

So the red rug cape came off and the sword lay in glorious repose on my pillow, frozen in a dream until the moment we could play together again. By that time the cape's knot had pulled into a shrunken fist harder than habrium and Thor had taken my sword against our table at home one afternoon, so the blade had more nicks than edge, but these two objects I loved more than anything else in the cosmos. I don't think Thor loved anything. If he did, he kept it close to his heart where nobody could take it.

Alfheim didn't love anything, either. Our governesses kept Thor and I in sight at all time, where 'adventure' in adult-speak translated to 'let's go and see what the citadel park looks like without getting up from the park bench'. I _knew_ what the park would look like: the back of three or four royal guards. That's what _everything_ on Alfheim looked like.

My short, angry, round brother became my one ally in this. Thor threw our packed lunch on the floor when he found out we were going back to the park, causing Asgardian meats to splatter spectacularly across dainty elven pearlstone. He stamped upstairs to his room with me on his heels, slammed the door so he could open and slam it again, and stuffed himself under his bed.

"Want to play conquest in the tower?" I said, not knowing what else to say after this embarrassing, cathartic display.

"No!"

"Want to watch _Sigurd and the Birds_?"

He made an angry, guttural noise.

We sulked together for most of a fortnight before someone—possibly Svaldir, who as the Chief Councilor for Interrealm Affairs, must have considered this a prime situation for fostering interrealm _affairs_—arranged that Thor and I should attend a chant with the Queen of Alfheim's daughters.

Smirna and Polini were a couple of years older than Thor, both bright-eyed and forever implacably dressed in glittering gossamer robes. They spent the whole chant tormenting my brother until Thor got so angry that he pushed them down. Our next playdate went better; both my brother and the Queen's daughters had been suitably punished between times and said not a word to the opposite side. Smirna and Polini attached themselves to me instead—in five minutes, I had two personal attendants who liked fetching me sweet drinks and toys. I couldn't understand it. They adopted me as a new friend, earning me the hatred of their own younger brother, and together we talked about books and sat in the shade of a hollow oak tree. This was very nice.

Smirna liked mind-games; she would have Polini and I speechless with agonized concentration, trying to work out answers to riddles I'd never heard before. Polini liked dress-up play; together the three of us made the Children's Court and presided over our peers' conflicts. They showed me pretty gems and feathers from strange birds, opal seashells, and wove their treasures in my hair.

My father put a stop to the last when I came back to our tower to show him. Boys aren't supposed to be pretty, he said. He made me take all my friends' gifts back, and accused the Queen of Alfheim of "trying to undermine the House of Odin". I think their mother must have spoken to Smirna and Polini, because the next time I played with them they suggested we play a fighting game instead.

"Girls don't fight," I said, baffled.

"Oh." They seemed equally puzzled by my answer, which made me even more confused. How could this be news to them? "Very well. What would you like to do?"

"Play Bor and Conquest!" I told them I would fetch my red cape and sword, and they could be the rebellions, and I would come after them and crush them. Smirna and Polini got very excited about this plan. I charged back to my room and took up my rug cape and my toy sword, which gave me an electric jolt as love will. I raced back to the girls with my heart in the clouds and my feet lighter than air.

Smirna and Polini loved my Bor costume. They giggled over the cape and gave my sword experimental swooshes. One of them—probably Polini—suggested that we get my discarded, angry brother.

"We could all run from Thor," she said.

"Oh, yes!" cried the other. "He'll make a perfect Bor."

This hit me in the face like an unearned fist. "_I'm_ Bor," I said, stunned.

Smirna laughed. "No, you're nice. Isn't he nice? He's too cute to be awful old Bor."

"Bor-Thor," Polini chanted, giggling. "Thor-Bor. Thor the Bor the Bloody. Ha! He's ugly enough to be Bor."

My face grew hot. Bor, awful? Bor, Ugly? What was _wrong_ with Alfheim? Bor was good! He was the best Asgardian in the Cosmos. How could my friends not love my hero? "_I'm_ Bor," I demanded, heartbroken.

Smirna's nose wrinkled. "Why do you want to be the bad guy, anyway? Let's make Thor the bad guy. We can all run from him while he tries to cut off our heads."

"Yes!" Polini shrieked. She handed my sword back, and I clutched the toy hilt; comforting it, protecting it. "You can be our friend and run with us. You can be an Eldjotun spy."

"I'm Aesir," I said, horrified. Aesir are heroes. Bor was a hero. Eldjotnar were evil.

Smirna blinked. "But you're not like other Asgardians, Loki. You're _good_." Her eyes got very round and her mouth grew tight with passion.

Thor and I spent the rest of the trip in our own tower, angry separately and side by side.

* * *

A/N: Just a friendly note that I will be going on hiatus for a week. I want to make sure I can incorporate any details about MCU Thanos and his minions from Guardians of the Galaxy. Next chapter will probably be up the second week of August . . . but if I finish early (or it turns out that I don't need to alter my original plans) I will update much sooner.


	9. An Elegant Plan

When Hruothban and his sword-brothers wake in a sterile, bright Chitauri cell, they find their bonds cut and me standing in the opened cell door waiting to hand them back their weapons. Two dead Chitauri guards lay at my feet. Both guards had been slit from ear to ear. No alarms are sounding. No other Chitauri stand at my heels. I am the obvious picture of _rescue_.

Now. What do you expect my new friends did upon stumbling to their feet?

Hruothban noisily smashes me into the corridor wall, his fingers clawing into my throat while he yells oaths. I am a traitor, a monstrous wretch and coward, the enemy's bedfellow, a liar. Rather than feed into this idiot I tap his hands, and then his face, to get his attention. He beats me across the jaw and resumes strangling me.

"Traitor! Thrall! Shame of your fathers! I will make you wish you were never born."

The assumption inherit in this threat makes me smirk.

Hruothban lets go half his grip to backhand me, and in that instant I choke out: "We're in the dungeon. _Look_."

He pauses; one hand raised, the other clenches around my throat.

"Nuh," I gurgle. "_Nnn—_Now we know where the dungeon is. Yes? Do you see it?" Trying to breath is like trying to swallow knives. Black spots wheel before my face. My eyes want to pop. " . . . And we know where the entrance is. We can rescue our friends and escape without—nng. _Uhhg_. Guh. Under these foolish cowards' noses. We shall make them a laughing jest before As—Asgard."

His raised hand lowers, but he doesn't let go of my neck.

"Hruothban," Braeggvild says. The tracker appears as a woozy shadow at his leader's side. "This Elven beggar speaks true. He has slain the guards while we were frozen."

"We were frozen," Hruothban says, "because he attacked us."

"I attacked you to smuggle us into the dungeons," I growl. I don't try to pry his fingers from my jugular. This is the most important trick in surviving a beating or in staging recovery from trespass: _never_ fight back. Never, never, never. It is important that Hruothban doesn't see me defending myself from him. If I defend myself, I am his enemy.

When Hruothban throws me down, I get up without the usual bared-teeth blustering bravado that passes for negotiation among the Aesir. He scoops up one of my salvaged Chitauri rifles, examines it with a grunt, and signals for Braeggvild and Lur to do the same. "Do not betray us again, Elf-thrall."

"-or you'll kill me?" I am not surprised. Why is this everybody's solution to my antics? Am I the only creature in Nine Realms with a mind for _elegance_? Elegance! Why should elegance be the sole domain of a . . . malformed, fatherless, homeless, disgraced swine birthed by a monster and reared by tyrant? I suppose I'm just special, that way.

Braeggvild pushes a hard hand into my chest. "Or we'll make you wish we'd killed you."

The corridor is clear. There are more cells opening from the left and right walls, but none are guarded. After several false starts—silenced by my magic, of course—we find Ilofn and Oddoutril in their own individual hells, one unconscious and the other in a ball that makes me hurt to look at. Hruothban instructs Braeggvild and Lur to take Oddoutril by his arms, help him stand, keep him quiet when he panics. Hruothban and I pick up Ilofn's body.

We meet two Chitauri en route to the surface. Lur blasts one before I can warn him off, and the other bolts.

Oddoutril fights free from his support. He rushes the creature with head bowed low and massive arms spread wide to ensnare. The Chitauri gropes for a weapon, but is smashed into the grimy floor instead by an enraged berserker. Od puts a hammer-like fist through its right eye. The fight is over.

What happens next hardly qualifies as a _fight_. What happens next is immensely entertaining.

And . . . gory.

And . . . lengthy.

Alarms blare overhead.

"Od," Braeggvild prompts a short while later. "Od. We should go."

Od says nothing. He gives the Chitauri's scattered remains a final kick and then unzips his trousers to loose a parting stream across the mess spread up the corridor and across one wall.

"We must hurry," Lur says. "These creatures swarm like the Vindren do."

If Od hears him, he gives no response.

This is going to get us nowhere fast.

I drop Ilofn's limp legs to join them. "Od," I murmur. Od is staring at the purple carnage, hypnotized. "Let's go kill some more."

He doesn't respond to this, either, but he lets Lur and Braeggvild take his shoulders and direct him toward the path leading up. We reach the oozing access tunnel as the walls begin vibrating to life. The hanger, I think. They are coming for us. The screeching alarms rattle my teeth. I can't feel my body.

* * *

We make the bifrost site in a sprint, crashing to a halt in the Pattern's center as the swarm closes in around us Hruothban shouts for Heimdall. I stoop to set Ilofn on the ground so I can clear out—The Chitauri cannot find my invisible bag.

Braeggvild points his plasma rifle in my face. "You are coming with us."

"I—"

"Move from here and you die."

Rainbow light explodes around us. When I look up, Heimdall and half of Odin's elite Einherjar are pointing swords at our throats.

"Peace, friends," Hruothban says. His big happy grin is back.

I'm still shaking.

"This is Oddoutrial," Braeggvild explains, introducing our warband. "Son and heir to Lord Noin. Hruothban son of Adarr, Lur son of Lur, and I, Braeggvild son of Siggvild, recovered him and the other from our captors. He is Ilofn son of Anja the Sorceress of Vanaheim."

Hruothban sets Ilofn's upper half on the observatory's shining floor, leaving me to follow suit. Between the swords and the lingering reptilian stink in my clothing and hair, I almost drop his legs. My muscles aren't working right. Hrothban, Braeggvild, and Lur surrender their weapons to the Einherjars' self-worthy feet.

Hruothban adds, with a sharp gesture at my ribs, "This creature is Vyir the Enchanter, a thrall in service to Alfheim."

"He shot us with an alien weapon," Lur blurts.

Irritation rears its lovely head above whatever blind, black ooze has replaced my limbs with stone. "That's hardly fair," I say. "Who was it that got us into the dungeon so we could rescue Lord Noin's heir?"

"You could have warned us," Hruothban says.

"While you were all 'Huzzah death by battle'?"

"Quiet." Lord Urdur, the Einherjar leader, signals his men to move out. "You will need your tongues when you make your report before Chieftain Tyr."

We are escorted from the bifrost by the city's premier guards, whom Hruothban and his friends have forgotten to warn that I am a magic-user. Un-bound, un-silenced, I conjure an Odin-King illusion to meet us before we're halfway across the Bridge.

Odin is looking a little wobbly round the edges. I am running out of magic.

Lord Urdur and our brave escort salutes the illusion—as do Hruothban, Braeggvild, and Lur. Only Od remains standing. Od looms with his arms locked at his sides and his dull eyes vacant. I make the Allfather spare not a glance at the rescue before nodding in my direction.

"Chieftain Urdur," it says.

"Your Majesty."

"This one is known to me. You will release him into my custody. I must speak with him in private about our treaty with the Elves."

Urdur salutes a second time. My legs still aren't working right, but Odin-King and I walk away to find a nice private hiding spot in the city. In a hollow between a tannery and a smithy, I banish the illusion and recast an Odin-mask upon myself just to be safe.

I'm shaking again.

Another invisibility spell and I am set to return—no thanks to that paranoid fool. My insides feel like a wrung-out towel. Going back to Vorsgard makes me want to dig my eyes out. I should rest before risking another teleportation.

I can't rest.

I don't have time.

Manic, depthless heat squeezes my chest at the thought of the Chitauri stealing my prizes. The heat explodes into scalding pressure. I would rather _die_ than lose my treasures. I've got nothing left; I'm _damn _well going to have my reward. I steady my hands, master my reserves, and peel back the gate between worlds.

Vorsgard's clinging mud slicks up my shins, splatters my knees, gushes wet and acrid across my hands. My strength gives out. I slip forward into the muck. Hot sand cooks my nose and throat.

The invisibility spell is a bright spot in my mind, flickering as my reserves stretch to breaking point. I grip the magic over my weakening body as an unspoken plea to the cosmos.

I can't hear the Chitauri chariots.

They were right behind us.

My boots skid out from under me as I try righting myself. Orange mud soaks my nice black and silver biosuit, but I don't dare expend any more magic to help me stand.

I'll need what magic I have left to grab my bag and get back to Asgard.

The Chitauri should still be airborne, not so far from where I've fallen.

I slosh to a nearby outlook, tasting dead planet in the back of my throat. Vorsgard's massive white star burns my twitching neck and hands above the cooling orange paste. The Chitauri won't be able to see me and can't scan me, but my right hand is spasming as if I'm already hooked up to an electrode. My chest hurts. I'm breathing too fast. When I reach the edge a cold rush pins me motionless. The brown sky is shot with distant smoke, but there are no chariots. No swarm.

The Chitauri are gone.

I don't understand. They _were_ closing in on us. They were a dozen kilometers out but coming fast—

From the overlook's slimy edge I see fried skeleton cities and barren landscape. No shadows dart between the ruins, or over congealed mud.

Vorsgard is empty.

I am alone.

Where did the Chitauri go, in five minutes?

The sandbanks in my mind itch, soaking me with nebulous doubt. The tide shifts. Am I mad? Did I imagine them? Did I imagine everything?

Could I have just arrived to Vorsgard for the first time? Have I not yet found the outpost?

I push those thoughts aside.

The ruins swallow me again without a sound. Old buildings cloak the sky in shrunken metal teeth. I trace my remembered path to the wall where I've buried my possessions, ignoring the prickly wave of panic that sniffs up my spine. When I slink around a blackened gate at the foot of an ex-palisade, the cluttered ground opens in a deadly, welcoming alley. My bag is at the alley's far end.

I head for the entrance and jolt motionless, eyes wide. Cold sweeps up my arms.

A cloaked figure is standing at the alley's narrow mouth, facing inward.

Scrambling behind the gate I press my back to the porous stone, twitchy right hand clamped over my mouth, and peer through the pylons at the alley.

The figure is real—I'm sure he's real. Look, he's not a shadow. But who—what—is this? Does he sense the death ward mere centimeters farther ahead?

The cloaked figure turns. I sink farther into the dirty shadows under the gate. The intruder's hood rotates in a lazy arc: left, then right. Looking for me.

I crush myself flat to the wall until the stone gouges my back. Bad things happen if I am found.

"You hide from me, little creature," the figure says. My blood freezes. My breath dies. I know that voice.

The Other's chilling stare drifts up the palisade, two meters left from where I'm crouched with my fist in my mouth. "Come forth. You could be of use, with your magics. Have I found your nest?"

Agonized need pushes up my throat. I am Compelled to answer, and bite my tongue to keep myself silent. If I speak, I am lost.

The Other bares its sharp teeth in a ghoulish smile. "I smell power and illusion. What are you hiding away in here? Trinkets? Treasure? Gold and Jotnar magic. You are a friend of the Asgardians, is that so?"

No. Not really. Not at all.

"The Witch of the Void tells me you tried to trick my Chitauri," it says. Pain splits my lower jaw. The Compulsion drives my mouth open. I grip my throat in a fist and _squeeze_. "You wanted to rescue two Asgardians from them. So very loyal." The Other waits for my reply. When I do not speak, it tilts its head as if listening to a distant sound. I can see greasy white flesh behind a golden veil—the Other's neck and throat are runny scars. My pulse batters my teeth. I bear down on my tongue until blood fills my mouth.

The Other says, "The Witch of the Void tells me you are hiding under that rusting gate."

My heart stops.

The Other looks right at me.

Real real _real_.

It draws a scarred hand up, palm outward; a gesture to sooth a spooked animal. "You should not fear me, little creature. I can offer you much more than your Asgardian friends. They have left you bones to eat on this world, but I will give you a a home, a purpose, riches, whatever it is a thing such as you desires. Build a new nest in service to a far greater power." The Other releases its Compulsion spell. I cover my mouth with both hands, preventing any perverse residual itch that would give away my location.

"War is coming." The Other's ghoulish runny mouth warps into a grotesque smile. "You may tell your Asgardian friends this. I will leave you now to consider my offer. I must join my master in speaking with another in our service, who will be rewarded. What _he_ desires is holy war . . . and we will give it to him."

When the Chitauri's master fades into the red shadows then—only then—do I gasp for breath. My insides are jelly. My hands are coated in wet, cooling spittle. I've gnawed my fingers bloody.

_You think you know pain? _The last time we spoke. My soul projected into the shattered asteroid belt where the Hive lived for a time. The Other, ethereal against a spangling of midnight stars. It called me, and I came.

You don't have the Tesseract yet, I said.

_Do not fail us._ _There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he can not find you_. _He will make you long for something as sweet as pain_.

I wipe snot and tears from my cheeks. Pathetic whining noises fill my ears. I feel sick from swallowing blood.

I am weak, and therefor unworthy of love.

_A thing such as you_. _Riches_. _Little creature. War is coming_.

Another grubby swipe and I've mopped my face clean.

Od and Ilofn are good men. Both of them. Good, worthy. Handsome, to their mothers at least. Fine people.

The circling chariots must have given up once the bifrost touched down. They understood they had lost us and returned to prepare their invasion. I don't know if in my captivity I ever told the Other about the bifrost, but—

Never mind that now.

Asgard has been alerted. The War Council will be preparing for attack, securing our perimeter, escorting civilians to safety. Lord Urdur will see that the palace shield is raised well before an enemy fleet is upon us. Asgard will be looking for Odin-King to command them, but in his absence Tyr will step up to take charge. That will be all right. Frigga will—

Frigga will remember me for a coward if I do not return.

I grind my teeth together.

Let me be a coward. Let me be a liar. Let me be hated.

I want to live.

_You tried to trick my Chitauri_, the Other said. You _tried_?

That _is_ what it said. You _tried_ to trick my Chitauri. You wanted to rescue two Asgardians from them.

You _tried_.

_Tried_ is not a good word.

Fizzing sharp alertness flares hot and green inside my skull, forcing the smothering darkness into retreat. I crawl to my feet. The alley is not so far. I can make it.

Keeping my back straight and tall, I lurch from shadow to shadow into my deathward's sturdy protection. The bag is where I left it: a leather bundle I can only see with my fingertips. _Real_. It's real, too. I loop the strap over a shoulder, and grope through the contents to verify that my things are still here.

Yes.

My fists glues itself to the Casket's handle. Convulsive need for firepower means the accompanying transformation is hardly noticeable this time around. I could have gone for the Gauntlet, I suppose, but I know how the Casket works and an untried weapon is more dangerous than none at all. I crouch in place until the magic's run its course. Another cooling spell, a check that my Allfather mask is intact, and I lope from the rubble back to the city streets.

The Sight rune is useless to a Jotun. I can see heat radiating from the habrium wreckage as a four-dimensional map that gives me no shadows and lingering smudges where the Other conjured its own world-gate.

_Tried_ to trick. You _tried_.

A black hole opens under my feet. My soul inverts.

_Did they chase us for show?_

If they knew I had planted Hruothban, Lur, and Braeggvild for capture, they would have realized we were planning a dungeon-break. If they knew we were planning a dungeon-break and sent minimal interference, minimal guards—just enough to make the rescue look convincing—just enough to follow us at a distance without stopping us—

I race up the ruined habrium pathways, up the hill to where the bifrost scar . . . draws infrared ghost-patterns three meters high as a surreal Jotnar-only afterimage . . . and collapse in a heap at the nauseating center. Trembling from exertion, I scrabble for enough magic to conjure a third world-gate. My veins surge with acid. Blue sparks crackle up my palms.

_Blue_?

I can't remember what green is supposed to look like.

The sparks flare, and die. I conjure another spell. Pain cracks from my fingertips. I am tired. The world-gate explodes un-cast, sending concussive shocks through my bones.

"Heimdall! _Heimdall_!" I dispel my invisibility.

The bifrost pounds my eyes with more shimmering heat-colors.

Our guardian appears upon his dais, greatsword shining like starlight. My legs go out from under me. Odin Allfather smacks his knees on the Observatory's astrium-plate floor.

Heimdall does not disgrace His Majesty by offering a hand up or asking after my health; he pretends he does not see me as I haul my sick trembling self upright. My joints are fused together. There is ice spreading across my forehead, never mind the cooling spell. I am gripping the Casket one-handed with the invisible bag twisted behind my back, afraid that if I let go I will die.

Mustn't let go.

"Where—" I sound broken, ragged, used up. "Is the party from Vorsgard?"

"One quarter of an hour ago a second, smaller—" Heimdall starts.

I fly past him to the Observatory stables.

The city gate peels back before I've even reached the Bridge's end. Six guards detach from their watch to flank my arrival.

"Summon Chieftain Tyr," I command. "A party returned with Lord Noin's son and another valiant warrior." Valiant is polite-speak for _injured_. "Find them. Now. Bring them in heavy guard to the Royal Hall."

_Tried to trick. Wanted to rescue._

I seat myself in Odin's throne. Heat makes the whole of Asgard into a nauseating spectral soup. The True Spear, Gungnir, is presented to me by a dutiful attendant. My invisible bag is caught between me and the throne's managull backrest. Nothing but merciless logic makes me remove my hand from the Casket. If an enemy comes at me and Odin-King blasts him with ice, I am slated for execution. Never mind the Chitauri.

Never mind that I look like Odin-King.

I blow out a breath while acid turns me Aesir again. The Hall rights itself in a normal spectrum.

An alarm screeches. The sound hits me like an ax. What have I done?

The Einherjar guardsman on my left glances to me—

Suspicion?

—"The vault!" he says.

Vault. _Vault?_

I surge to my feet. "Go!"

"Your Majesty!" Chieftain Tyr and his war leader, Lord Aumdyn, burst through the engraved golden doors. I'm halfway down the steps with the bag over my shoulder again before they reach my side—and then we're pounding through Odin-King's lovely pristine palace, past frightened silk-clad attendants and oh-so-mighty lords.

_Vault._

Of course.

If they wanted us to escape, they wanted us to reach Asgard.

I am criminal and judge at the same time, racing to the city's defense with Odin's cheer squad keeping pace beside me. We gain the weapons vault with a garrison falling into place behind us. The checkpoint guards scream orders to secure this and lock down that and Tyr screams back at them to _stand the living blood of Buri_ aside.

He, Aumdyn, and I push through into the vault's silent depths.

A red path meets us beyond the gates. Two gold-cloaked guards dead, dragged aside and left lying in a heap. No. _Three_ guards dead. There is another crumpled on his side around a bend just outside the inner chamber.

_Four_ dead—the last gold-caped guard is smashed across the floor much as Od's Chitauri had been, abandoned in a sickening mirror image with his innards spilled up the wall above him.

I navigate the red maze on silent feet, gripping Gungnir's haft as a lifeline. Smoke and blood fill the passages with an acrid taint that wraps mealy grime over my mouth. I clench my jaw to keep from breathing in.

The Trophy Room is as a charred, broken ruin. Odin's treasures lie crushed into glittering shards, scattered across the stone where the Destroyer has left smoldering craters. The Warlock's Eye, the Orb of Agamotto, are no more. The Tablet is in irreparable pieces. The Eternal Flame is extinguished. The Destroyer itself lays at the vault's far end, hacked apart.

Lord Aumdyn jerks to point at the empty stand. "The Casket!"

"_Jotunheim_," Tyr snarls. It's a curse. A promise of revenge.

In the room's center are more silent bodies: two Einherjar—and Lur, Braeggvild, and Hruothban. My warrior friend is child-like in death, his brows stricken in pain and confusion. I kneel above him to close his eyes. He is still warm.

Od and Ilofn have vanished.

And with them, the Tesseract.


	10. That's the Way (It Oughtta Be)

A/N: My apologies to any real bands called "Hello Night". No resemblance is intended.

* * *

Two days later I've replenished enough magic to open another world-gate, to Midgard. Although cocktail napkins aren't meant for fine illustration, after some frustrating few minutes I've got the Nine Realms spread out across three tiny white napkins on a table in the back of a Los Angeles nightclub. Asgard and Alfheim are mushed around a wet ring from the waitress's mishandling my Scotch on the rocks, with Midgard crammed under the nightclub's name on napkin number two, and Muspelheim sulking in a corner at napkin number three's most extreme end.

There is no place in any branch on the World Tree where the Chitauri won't go. With the Tesseract in their slimy hands, the cosmos opens to them as a veritable playground. Even Svartalfheim harbors raw minerals, and raw materials are very attractive to a cybernetic race. No matter how long I spend staring at my map I can't find a single realm inhospitable enough to give me shelter. There is no location—at any world—on any branch—where I am not going to be dead inside three months.

Through a window Midgard's single moon is a dirty pink thorn. Remote light fights to be seen through the haze. Los Angeles's valley at night looks like Nithavellir: dark alien vegetation pierced by glowing orange windows and doors.

The waitress sets another Scotch on the rocks at my elbow, and when I give her an inquisitive scowl merely smirks in the opposite direction. A youngish man with greased platinum hair six tables to my left winks at me.

"Oh!" The waitress peers over my shoulder at the napkins, uninvited. She smells of raspberry gum, chemical perfume, and tobacco smoke, and these scents combine with old cleaning products and ale into a mindless haze. "Do you do concept work? My brother-in-law works for Bad Robot. They need more women in the industry, am I right?"

Er.

She puts a hand on my bare shoulder in what I have to assume is her attempt at solidarity and brushes past to complete her rounds. The raspberry cloud follows.

People seem to think they don't need permission to touch me when I am female-shaped.

I finish my first drink as music picks up again, leaving the second for later. The band embarrassing itself in the corner is called _Hello Night_ and its lead guitar, rhythm guitar, and bass are attempting to find a melody by birthing as many unrecognizable chords as possible all at once all at the same volume. Other than that awful racket, the nightclub is dull for an important city and smells new despite the scratched tile floor and ground-in stink. The new-ness might be a trick of my imagination; some time during the last forty years humanity stopped blowing tobacco smoke everywhere and, as this is the smell I have always most associated with humanity, what remains is . . . faded. Stripped to the bone.

Is it too much to hope for that Midgard's rapid mutation slow down every once in a century? As soon as one finds an agreeable pocket to call home, a return visit ruins all sentimental happy memories. Everything one loved is gone, erased, forgotten, never to be seen again. Forty years or forty thousand years—it's all the same on Midgard. Go on. Never bother falling in love. Never bother getting used to anything. Forget it all. It's lost. Don't feel.

What the _hell_ happened to rock and roll?

On my right, the nightclub waitress makes a round refilling water glasses and a shiny-faced, smug asshole in a three-piece suit almost backhands her while pontificating to his grinning colleague. I enchant his nearby glass to look empty.

My second Scotch goes to uneasy stillness. _War is coming_. The Other was right. There is a hole in the cosmos, a soul-less drain through which I can feel mortality calling.

I can survive for a while in the Fringe, on the outskirts of space. Derelict colonies or worlds that aren't part of Yggdrasil, like the ones I haunted in my later hundreds, thrive for staying out of sight. Many such places will remember me for my guises: Vyir,Vauleinn, Aedoa, Jithra, Jithral, Gmaeldjyn, and Hallgrimr, which is not an Aesir name.

Many places will want revenge.

I will need greater caution there than in the Nine Realms. The wealthy mage who came nosing for greater magics—or confiscating, pillaging, and stomping out rivals at the head of the Black Tower Guard—can never be connected with me.

I will need greater caution _everywhere_. Asgard may believe me dead, but once Thanos crushes Asgard they will be the very least of my problems.

My investigators have told Asgard that they were captured by 'Prince Loki's army' and held imprisoned until an Elf-thrall and Hruothban freed them. Tyr shared Hruothban's small-minded suspicions that 'Loki's army' is naturally following Asgardian honor rules and so out to avenge its follow leader by stealing the Tesseract as a trophy. Asgard, being Asgard, has no idea why Od and Ilofn are helping 'Prince Loki's army' unless they are and have always been monstrous traitors worthy of disdain. Asgard is preparing to march against a species who will not follow rules in war.

Someone tricked us. Someone staged an elaborate production to make us think we'd fought our way out of the dungeon on Vorsgard. Someone warned Od to demonstrate a hatred for the Chitauri so we would smuggle him and Ilofn back to Asgard without being suspicious. Someone is being very, very clever.

Asgard doesn't know how to fight against clever.

Worse, Asgard has no idea how Od and Ilofn got into the weapons vault, nor how they slipped the Tesseract from the city and this, more than every mistake Asgard's going to make engaging the Chitauri, will seal the city's fate. From the moment Tyr, Lord Aumdyn, and I found the four vault guards dead in the heart of an otherwise untouched compound, I knew how it happened. I recognized the scene. Vault guards dead inside an unbesieged compound? People appearing from thin air where they shouldn't be? Od and Illofn were not acting alone. The Chitauri have an Asgardian sorceress on their side.

A sour taste fills my mouth. Illness sinks through my chest, rotting my stomach, hollowing my legs. I set down my drink and try to push the illness away. The flashing neon nightclub feels like a sham: surreal. A foolish mistake. A lie.

Smug Asshole lets out a yell. The waitress gushes apologies. The glass still looks empty, so, after cursing her and mopping his suit, he tries to fill it up himself.

The second wave of yelling begins.

"I'm sure you hear this a lot," says a man's voice on my left, "but you have an amazing smile."

Scotch-giver of the platinum hair has appeared by my table, almost silhouetted by the neon lights. I didn't hear him approach over the yells and the catastrophe pretending to be music. He is in his fourth decade—well into adulthood by mortal standards—with striped black and white trousers, a metal barb in his nose, and a pirate smile.

"Deranged," I say. "Nobody uses the word 'amazing'."

"I like deranged. Mind if I sit?" Pirate hooks a finger at the empty chair across from me. He waves at my napkins. "Tell me that's not a love letter to your boyfriend?"

Somewhere, the Other is preparing a gate to transport the Tesseract to the Void between realms.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain_.

If I go crawling back . . . if I beg forgiveness . . .

"What would you do," I say, "if you knew the Universe was coming to an end?"

Pirate's cocky smirk dissolves as if I've put a knife in his ribs.

That's new. "What? I am not threatening to—"

"You don't joke like that anymore." He stuffs a hand in his pocket, looking around as if we're going to be overheard by someone terrible. "You know? I guess you don't do it. Not after New York. You might be one of SHIELD—ex-SHIELD now, I guess. Hell. I dunno. You might be fucking serious." He lurches a grin.

Ah. "I'm not with SHIELD. Don't worry."

He looks down at my map. "What's this?"

"I do concept work," I regurgitate. "For the bad robot."

And now he's wide-eyed with delight, showing off straight white teeth, almost laughing. "Are you serious? You must have won the lottery to get in there. I've heard that after he earned all those Oscars turning Star Trek into a way to fight back against alien invasion you have to save somebody's kid to get your resume considered. Are you—are you serious?"

"Yes I am. Very serious."

He's irritating, like a needy pet, but he's a needy pet with an infectious laugh. He's not bad looking, either. He's got a well-shaped, lanky body. Broad-shouldered. Big, calloused hands. He looks strong enough to be interesting. For a few hours.

He thrusts out a palm. "I'm Jamie. Let me guess: your name is going to be something surprising . . . a little exotic . . . maybe a bit sexy." He taps his forehead as if he's trying to summon my name from the Well of Wisdom.

If he does, I'll have to kill him.

"Hmm . . ." Jamie the Pirate does a good job looking strained. The dimple on the right side of his mouth gives him away. "Rachel?"

"No." Never agree to the first guess.

"No," he repeats. "Of course not. It'll be . . . Ariana?"

"Nope."

Smug Asshole and his colleague have the brilliant idea to stick a hand in the empty-looking glass, to make sure there's nothing blocking the top. While they're making geysers, I cast a silencing hex on _Hello Night_'s mutilated speakers. There. Fixed it for them.

"Daphne?"

"Nuh-uh."

We settle on Madeline. Madeline is my name.

Afterwards, we settle for a wall inside the men's room.

* * *

Much later that evening, once I've bought a hotel room from an attendant who let me pay cash, I dispel the illusion that makes my dress look like West Midgardian women's attire. The sickened pressure in my chest hasn't gone away.

Frigga is still on Asgard. Frigga will stay on Asgard until the end days come.

Frigga will think me a coward.

What does it matter?

Asgard will fight. That is what Asgard does. Vanaheim will fight, because Vanaheim is Asgard's bedfellow. Alfheim may fight. But of the others . . . Muspelheim and Jotunheim, Niflheim, and Nithavellir, may well see the tide turning and abandon ship for the winning team. They will take _my_ place as lieutenant, damn them.

It took all nine realms working together last time to trap Thanos in the Void. This time, we're starting the board with one fewer players. This time, half the pieces want to see Asgard dead and could accept Thanos as High King in exchange for a little revenge. Asgard will face a war on two fronts: Thanos, the Other and his Chitauri; Jotunheim, Muspelheim, Niflheim, Nithavellir—and possibly Alfheim, if Alfheim smells death on the wind and turns tail. As for Midgard—heh. Midgard hardly counts. They'll wish they had my protection when I was Thanos's left hand. They'll regret putting up a fight. I would have been a benevolent god. The Chitauri, Jotnar, and Eldjotnar will bear no such good will.

That's a shame. I've always had a soft spot for Midgard.

It would take the master of all negotiations to wrangle a treaty between Yggdrasil's branches now, and unfortunately what we've got is Military Adviser Tyr helming a race of Thors.

Balmy night air sweeps across my skin, but even naked I can't tear off the crawling vileness that covers me head to foot. I am fetid inside in a way I can't scour clean. Somewhere between my innards and my false Aesir skin is an unworthy layer: slime from Vorsgard's orange mud, the sapping mildew of the Void, the unforgivable disease of being alive.

Frigga held my hands because I'd asked her to.

Frigga deserves to be alive far more than I do.

Asgard will fall soon after Thanos rises, and the woman who let me call her mother will die.

We _need_ Nine Realms. What we've got are two, possibly three. We _need_ a master negotiator, on par with the damn myths of old.

What we've got is a liar.

A liar, who knows how the enemy works.


	11. Silvertongue

"Your Majesty?" I use this address because _your majesty_ is less pathetic than _Mother_, even alone in her private study. I need all the less-pathetic I can get, turning up like an eleventh-hour hero three days after I supposedly skulked off to live under a rock.

Frigga looks up. She rises from behind her desk with an imperious sweep of her skirts, although she is drawn; pale—almost visibly shaking. Unmasked, she advances on me while thunderous pink spots stain her cheeks an ugly blood red. "Tell me now," the Queen demands, "Did you steal the Casket for Jotunheim?"

My tongue turns to lead.

"Did you?" She reaches out to grab me. I stumble sideways, out of reach. "Loki?"

My name is a curse.

The peace we reclaimed, however brief, is shattered. "No," I say.

"Tell it true. Did you steal the Casket?"

"No!"

Frigga snatches my collar and drags me down to look me in the eye. "For feeding you. For making you my son. For making you Prince of Asgard. Tell me if you—" her voice quavers. She alters the question. "Tell me that you didn't take anything from the vault."

"How _dare_ you think me an agent of Jotunheim." I want to go back to Midgard. Make this not be happening.

"Swear," Frigga says, "that you didn't take anything from my husband's trophy room."

"I swear it."

She grabs my wrists. Her fingernails bite into my skin. Almost nose-to-nose, she peers into my face as if she will find the Casket locked inside my hateful skull.

"Lord Aumdyn told me that your army has found Vorsgard." Frigga lowers her voice to a harsh, breathy whisper. "Your army took Odin's force captive. Two men turned traitor for _your name_ and stole weapons—"

"I had nothing to do with it. _I_ sent the force to Vorsgard because we lost contact with our outpost. They took me captive as well, and would have killed me if I hadn't escaped."

"Am I to believe this?"

I grind my teeth together. I can survive being hated, even by Frigga, but to be hated for such an illogical crime is more than I can stand. "Why in _vastest reach of Helheim_ would I send emissaries to be captured and then released just to steal weapons when I could sneak off to the vault any time I want?" I slam an Odin-Mask over myself, and leer, "Don't mind me. I'm just going to be taking my own things." I swap the Mask for an illusion that I'm Thor. I plant my fists on my hipbones and throw out my now not-so-weedy chest. "Ah! Noble guardsman. You must stand aside that I can borrow this shiny magic-thing here. My evil brother, Loki, is doing horrible deeds again and I must use this weapon to stop—"

"Stop this childishness." Frigga cups my face in her hands. "What of your army?"

"It's not _my_ army," I hiss. "They belong to a being called the Other. That's why I came back."

Frigga releases me. I rub my jaw with a shaking hand. She heads for her desk and I can't tell from her halting, stiff-armed walk if she's going to summon the guards or not. If she tries to have me arrested—

If she tries to have me arrested I will run.

If I run, there is no coming back.

The Queen tugs a hand cloth from her desk drawer and reaches up to dab her nose. She doesn't call the guards. Bit by bit her shoulders straighten instead, and she stands taller. Her breathing hitches—evens out. Her hand lowers. With her back to me she says, "Tell me what you were doing on Vorsgard."

I comply. From start to finish. I leave out no details—except for the part where I wanted to aid the supposed colonists against Asgard, because having her know that won't help my cause. When I explain about shooting Hruothban so we could find the dungeons Frigga turns around eyes narrow, but she listens to my story about rescuing the last two prisoners, how Ilofn spent the whole trip back limp as a corpse and how Od dismembered a Chitauri. She is silent while I admit that it never occurred to me that either could be in league with our captors—or, since the Chitauri's master possesses weapons for mind control, that they might be Chitauri puppets. Being chased by the swarm put those thoughts from my head.

"This enemy," I finish some ten minutes later, "is a brilliant strategist. That was a very well-executed ploy. I don't think I could have come up with anything better."

"It disturbs me that you sound so fond." I can't tell she believes what I've said or not. I am seated on her divan and she is standing over me without expression. She still hasn't called the guards, so this is a mark in my favor. "Who is he?"

"I don't know." Not Thanos or the Other. They are working with someone or someones unfamiliar to me, but I have no idea who—_The spy_. "There's something more," I add. "I don't dare say it aloud."

I help myself to the contents of her desk, and dig through the unlocked drawers until I find a clean-ish paper sheet and a stylus. I write a brief message and hold my paper where she can read:

_Someone opened a world-gate between two points on Asgard. That is how the party from Vorsgard appeared in the weapons vault and exited without being noticed. The magician who did this knew where to find the vault, which means that the magician who did this is a high-ranking dweller of Asgard_.

Frigga drags in a short, ragged breath.

I tear the paper into bits while staring her in the eye, and dispose of my note in the only way one can hope to hide a message from a rival sorcerer—sorceress, more like, if just for the sheer numbers game—by eating it

Frigga says, "Do you think someone is listening to us?"

Her rage has vanished into cold, cruel pragmatism.

"Possibly. If someone is, they already know I'm here.

She gazes at me without blinking. I can't read the emotions in her dark, glassy eyes; too many flicker behind her mask. There is fear, but from me or from what I've said? And anger—at me? Not at me? And grief.

_Did you steal the Casket for Jotunheim?_

At least now I know how she really feels. I want to scream.

I wet my parched lips with my tongue. My teeth are so dry my mouth tries to invert. "I told you—the last time I was here—that . . . I'm not really the monster you need worry about."

Whatever she is considering, Frigga seems to reach a decision. She draws another anxious breath. She lifts a hand to the the side of my forehead. I flinch, but her touch is not meant to hurt. This is a small concession. She settles back on her heels, puts her cloth away. "What of the enemy from which you are hiding?"

"The same enemy." I take a moment to compose myself. I never wanted to tell her this part. "When I . . . fell off the Bridge I was lost in deep space. It was the Chitauri who found me. They are a cybernetic race led by a sorcerer who calls itself the Other."

Her eyebrows raise, but I know she's heard this much already in sketchy explanations from our beloved Thor. The part she hasn't heard is the part that happened next—or at least, the part where I'm telling her an edited version out loud and she's listening to the inflections I'm trying to mask behind a pristine, calm facade.

"Somehow," I say, making my tone light, "the Chitauri worked out that I am a magician and they told this _Other_. The Other has a master as well, who it seemed was growing quite frustrated with his sorcerer failing to deliver on an important promise. Thinking it had found a solution, the Other made me a bargain: I would be granted release from the Void if in exchange I would steal for them an object of great power. An object that had been lost on a small, backwater realm."

"Tesseract," Frigga murmurs.

"I refused."

She pulls away from me, eyes poisonous. _Liar_.

My heart is so huge and heavy in my throat I am going to strangle on it. "I am son and daughter of Asgard. I do not use the magics the High King's wife taught to me to open a world-gate that would endanger all of my father's empire. _Odin-King's _empire," I specify. Her jaw is clenched. "I did not know what the Chitauri might do with this Tesseract, but if they wanted to possess its power above all else I must not let that happen. No matter what they promised, or threat—"

"You think me so blinded by affection that I am going to believe—" Frigga starts.

"You said you wanted to know _why_." I throw it back in her face. "You said my actions on Midgard made no sense. I'm telling you _why_. Do you think me a power-crazed madman, out to steal a crown that isn't mine?"

Yes, she does. That is exactly what they've always thought, she and Odin.

"If I wanted to be a king," I hiss, "I could have played politics again on Midgard until the people there _begged_ me to rule in office. I do not _want_ the throne."

_Liar_. She watches my face, unsmiling.

"Oh, no. _You're _the liar. See, this was never about me. This was you. You and Odin." I fight to swallow. "All this time you and the King have been terrified of the viper you let into your house, because no matter how many times I tell you I don't want—"

She reaches for me. I can't endure her petty apologies. She manages to get a few fingers through my illusionary hair before I jerk away.

"_Say so_," I hiss. "You are horrified by the thought that I might be king in your own son's stead. _I _told Heimdall to run tattling to Odin-King when Thor led us to Jotunheim. If I wanted Thor dead all I would have needed do is keep my mouth shut, cast a blanket over our movements so Heimdall couldn't see, let Laufey's warriors slay them, and teleport back to Asgard in tears to weep over my beloved brother's oh-so-timely death. The throne would have been mine with no fuss at all. This was never about what I had done—this was _you_. This is why, when Thor started a war with Jotunheim—a war which I _stopped—_he was banished for a whole few days into the arms of a mortal woman and when _I_ started a war I was sentenced to life in a cell? A stay of execution only because the High King's wife _begged_?"

"Is that—that isn't." Her chin wrinkles. "Is that really what you think?"

"_Yes_. But I am not here to play games. I told you—"

"My little son—"

"_No_." I recoil from her. "You listen to _me_ now. I told you I refused to fetch the Tesseract and I did—at first. Everything changed when I learned who the Other's master is."

"Loki." She sinks to the edge of her divan and pats the cushion at her side. "Come here."

I can't. If I sit down our peace will be a lie, and I'm tired of living in lies.

I say, "When I found out who the Other's master is, I had to escape. I had to break my vow. I had to get the Tesseract off Midgard. This was more important than anything else. If I refused, sooner or later the Other would find another champion. If not me, than someone who would want what it had to offer in exchange. If not me, we were all going to be in deadly trouble."

Frigga pats the seat beside her again. "We'll talk about it later."

"To make my betrayal look convincing I knew I couldn't just agree to steal the Tesseract," I explain. "Not after refusing already. I had to look like I wanted something from that bargain, as well. You understand? Not my freedom. Something more. I needed to make it a mutual business venture, rather than thrall and master, so that I had a goal invested in the scheme's success. Do you see it? I told them I would give them their Tesseract if in exchange they would help me take all of Midgard for my private kingdom. I told them that Thor, my idiot brother, will inherit Odin's empire."

"Please, Loki."

"I would be left with nothing. I would be councilor to a king who will ignore every word of advice I give him. Thor would never listen to me, you know he wouldn't. He's been ignoring my suggestions since we were children. This is what my life would be: whispering good advice into a bad king's ear only to get laughed at and pushed aside. Unless I am very lucky, of course, and he chooses to openly disgrace me by _not_ selecting his own brother as advisor to the throne. But on Midgard I would be king in my own right. No—better. I would be a _god_."

Frigga shakes her head. "Your father—"

"-would never allow me to do that. I _know_. That was the whole point. _I_ agree to steal the Tesseract from Midgard in exchange for Midgard itself. Isn't it brilliant? A very elegant solution. Whoever designed the trap on Vorsgard isn't the Other; I know this because the Other agreed to my insipid plan to conquer Midgard. All I had to do was show up on Midgard, steal that damn blue cube, cause the largest scariest shitstorm I could, and sit back to wait while reinforcements flew in to stop me. Not only would I win myself a free ticket back to Asgard, but I would get the Tesseract out of the Other's reach for good _and_ warn Midgard in the process that there are dangers out here with an interest in their realm. Consider me a false alarm for what is coming next."

Understanding drains all the color from her cheeks. Frigga is still as death.

"I _know_ Midgard," I tell her. "If I'd really wanted to be King of the Mortals, all I would have had to do is show up in a white robe and start preaching miracles. I could have made myself a messiah. I could have chosen any one of their holy books; fulfilled whatever prophecies were requisite to be hailed as the Coming—or Second Coming—of their Savior. The humans thought Thor and I were gods a millennium ago, they would think me a god now as well. I could make an illusion of myself descending from the sky. My supporters would have reached critical mass within a week. More elegant, don't you think?"

She says nothing.

"Besides, when has rampant melee carnage ever been my choice method for getting what I want? Beating people with a blunt object until they obey is _Thor's_ way of doing things. Please, Your Majesty. Loki _Silvertongue_, you know. I had hoped our noble High King would ask after my reasoning when I was returned home, but clearly it was enough that Laufey's son tried to take Midgard with an army and the son of Odin stopped him. The past is playing out again. What else did the Allfather need to know? That must have put you both at ease—how many centuries have you spent waiting for the second ax to fall? For Laufey's son to fulfill his father's destiny?"

"Do not say such things," Frigga says. "That isn't true."

"Oh? Oh, no? _Liar_." Black euphoria wrenches my face into a grin I don't feel. "You can imagine how he looked when I told him all this on Svartalfheim. He hardly stopped to threaten me with impaling before he scurried off to verify my story. And he _did_ verify my story, if he hasn't returned yet."

My smile collapses.

"He _hasn't_ returned yet, has he?" I blink, refocusing on her. Frigga is silent. "Only I suspect you would have started our happy chat by shushing me rather than yelling at me, if the man who made me call him Father was listening in the next room. I was supposed to be gone by now, you know. I don't think he'd be very happy to know I'm still lurking around his empire."

Frigga abandons her efforts to entice me onto the seat beside her, and laces her fingers in her lap instead. Her face is placid.

No. Odin Allfather has not returned yet.

She changes the subject by murmuring, "All of those people." From the way her eyes are growing distant, I don't think her words were meant for me to hear. _All of those mortals who died defending the Tesseract_.

I cross my arms. "A fraction of the cost if I had slipped away unchallenged. You know I'm right. You do see it, don't you?" I feel hollow, grainy, filled with sand. "I rigged the game to lose," I confide. "This is my greatest weapon. Sabotaging myself works when I have no other options left. I've never yet come across an enemy able to see through the ruse; everyone's so happy to defeat Loki they never stop to think about it. This gives me an unstoppable advantage."

Frigga's brows pinch upward in a brief, suppressed expression of grief.

I hate her grief.

I shrug one-armed so she knows that this isn't another attempt at baiting an argument.

The Queen takes some time straightening back into regal nonchalance. She smoothes her skirts with a gentle, distracted air. When she addresses me again her tone is weirdly warm:

"Will you tell me who is it was that convinced you to escape? You said that this Other Sorcerer has a master who wanted the Tesseract?"

I mask a shiver. "Yes, and as soon as the Other figures out how to get the Tesseract off Vorsgard he will have it. Mother—I didn't stop to look, and will have to check the Library, but we need to know in what condition are Vorsgard's old bifrosts. If the Other manages to free its master from the curse that keeps him locked safely between realms we are going to die. The Chitauri came through during the Convergence, but this now must be their plan: build or repair a launchpad and get the Tesseract to him. Use the Tesseract's power to lift his curse."

"What curse?" Her voice is soft and quiet, meant for a child. This saccharine coddling is worse than being yelled at.

"The _curse_," I say. "The one it took all Nine Realms working together to wield. The only way we defeated him before."

Frigga is quiet.

I wait for her to say something—anything.

She whispers, "Thanos?"

Hairs raise on the back of my neck. I answer with silence, in return.

Frigga begins pacing. She squeezes her hands together. "You must go before Tyr. You must tell him all that you have said to me. If this is true—"

"This is true. This is why Odin is gone." I am not, ever, going to bow before Chieftain Tyr and beg his mercy for my crimes. I've had enough of Asgardian justice for one lifetime.

"Thank you for telling me this, Loki." Frigga walks to her window, unties the curtain, peers out into blue morning as if expecting to see Thanos marching on the palace gates. She's always taken shelter in the natural world—windows, gardens, finding flowers growing from a chink in habrium.

I return to her side. "Your Majesty, you said before that I have a grasp on political current even if certain . . . other qualities . . . of mine are lackluster." _Honor_. "This is not even a matter for politics so much as simple mathematics: it took nine realms to defeat him last time. Today, Svartalfheim and Jotunheim are dead wastes, Muspelheim and the mist-world, Niflheim, are our enemies so much as the Jotnar were. Nithavellir and Alfheim cannot be trusted with three realms of seven likely to back an enemy of ours; if either one throws in the sword for Thanos the other will scramble for a place in his army. Midgard, as you know, is practically useless in a—"

"They defeated the Chitauri," she says.

"A fluke. A technicality," I sneer.

Frigga glances my way. "Wars are often won on technicality, my love."

Good point. "Five from Midgard," I amend, "besides Vanaheim and Asgard. This is the army we've got to work with: Two realms and a mortal warband against three realms backed by Thanos, the Chitauri, and—" I indicate the surrounding walls. _And we have a spy in our midst_. "Leaving two realms undecided. This could fast become a hopeless fight. And worse? Asgard's mightiest warriors will be powerless to win the other realms to our side. Alfheim is not impressed by strength. Nithaveller is proud to a fault. We need someone who is very good at talking."

She's knows what I'm going to suggest.

Frigga's expression is unreadable again. "What did Odin say to this?"

I slump against the wall. "He said practically the same thing he would have said about Vorsgard: None would dare side against us! That isn't a _plan_, Mother. That's the refusal to _make_ a plan."

"Loki." She sounds too hesitant, too careful. "Councilor Svaldir told me about the colony. Odin would have sent an army to find any such rebellion and crush them on their own soil. Many Chitauri would have been slain at no risk to our city."

Damn.

Frigga says, "When you took judgement into your own hands you sent no army and instead returned with traitors to Asgard. I know—I want to believe—that wasn't intentional. But . . . now the Tesseract is stolen from our protection and our enemies have slipped away unscathed."

"And if your husband had tried _my_ approach more often in the past," I say, "perhaps we would not be two realms against five in an intergalactic civil war. Anyway, you're forgetting that the Chitauri possess weapons for mind control. A thousand Asgardian warriors running around Vorsgard's tunnels would have made for even more traitors back in our sparkly city. Rather than losing the Tesseract to two misguided creatures, we might have suffered a royal coup on the blades of a hundred. No, a warded legion is the only way to fight such weapons and we did not know we needed a warded legion until now."

I hold up my hands in a gesture for peace. "Here is what I am suggesting—and please, hear me out. While it might be more . . . streamlined . . . to turn me over to Chief Councilor Tyr to be re-imprisoned and subjected to a full interrogation, you also know that my loyalty to this city is beyond question, if only because Thanos wants me tortured to death for betraying his mission to steal the Tesseract from Midgard."

Her mouth squeezes to a small pained line.

Whoops. I guess I didn't tell her that part. "This is why Odin-King allowed me to falsify my death," I explain. "Don't imagine that he had any cuddly altruistic reasons; he knows well as I do that as a former Prince of Asgard I possess many secrets that would endanger our city if they were ever pried from me." I quirk an apologetic smile. "Anyway, that doesn't matter. As it stands, we have two realms and a small mortal warband on our side. We _need_ indestructible treaties with Alfheim and Nithavellir. The first step is to take back the Tesseract, and to do that we must launch a planet-wide invasion. Asgard doesn't possess enough warriors to mount such a thing, and even with Vanaheim beside us the odds of locating the Tesseract before the Chitauri use it are slim to none. I am well-acquainted with Alfheim; give me the chance to fortify our relations with the Elves, at least. I can recruit them to aid us in this endeavor."

Frigga is still listening.

I take a deep breath. Here goes everything. "For the moment I am in a unique position so far as knowing how the Chitauri think. Or rather—don't think. I know the sorcerer who controls them. For so long as Odin Allfather is away, appoint me Councilor Regent in his stead: a position that may be withdrawn at the Queen's command."

She does not agree, but neither does she outright refuse. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her breathing is slow, but uneven. Her eyes are locked on me.

"The knowledge of my continued existence will be limited to you and I," I say. "In public, meantime, I will continue masquerading as Odin Allfather—just long enough to build an alliance with Alfheim and Nithavellir and launch a joint invasion. After we recover the Tesseract, I will take my leave from Asgard. Permanently."

Frigga's chin raises.

My heart does that odd flipping-thing inside my chest. "I wish I could read you. Tell me what you are thinking."

She doesn't.

"Your Majesty, I _know _this enemy. Support me in this and I will call a meeting in the Plain of Ida tomorrow morning, as Odin-King. I will tell the whole of Asgard what I have told you. How I—er, Loki—met the Chitauri. That the Tesseract was stolen to free Thanos. That we are on the cusp of total war."

She shuts her eyes.

I say, "Asgard resists going to others for aid, but once the public knows what is at stake they will support Odin-King's meeting with the Elves and Dwarves."

Frigga opens her eyes. "How will you convince them that you speak true?" Her voice is distant, cold, removed. Unhappy.

Ah.

I massage some life back into my tired face. This is the part of my plan I have trouble with. See, it isn't enough that Odin-King _says_ we are at war with Thanos. If he cannot back up his claim his title alone will not convince the councils at Gladsheim. Chieftain Tyr will want to pursue the Chitauri as Asgard would otherwise see fit: a drawn-out, personal vendetta playing tag with the Cube.

I sigh. "I will worry about that when the moment comes. _If_ they question me. They might not question me. I am Odin-King, after all. My word is absolute."

"When you father returns," Frigga says. She speaks slowly, as if she is pulling each word up from some great depths and weighing them with care. "What will you do then?"

"Flee the city." I shrug. "Not come back."

This does not please her. I can see the brittle frown in her eyes even before Frigga says, "You will have to stay."

I shudder. "Don't make me stand trial. Let me die in peace. I will go from here. I could live out the rest of my life on Midgard. Hey, maybe Thor and I will pass each other at a Disco sometime."

"You will stay," the Queen commands. "Or you will go from here now. I will not sweep this under the rug like a criminal. If we do this, we do this with the full force of the Allfather's justice upon our heads. Leave, or stay and stand trial. I will speak on your behalf. That is my choice. This is yours: I will have your solemn oath."

"A solemn oath." My lips curl back around my teeth. It's not quite a smile. "From Loki Liesmith?"

She is impassable.

"Alright," I say. "I swear it. When this is over I will let your husband judge me lacking and only run after he orders me executed."

Frigga shakes her head the smallest of a centimeter. "Your oath. On Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig."

_Bile lurches up my throat._

_Frigga watches to see if I will back down._

"That's a bit petty, isn't it?" I say. "Nine hundred years ago is long time, even for us. I can't decide if you're trying to tease me, or if you think my affection for you is no longer enough to hold my loyalty. Should I be insulted? I think we've come too far to be insulted. Very well. Have it your own way. I swear. On Hallormr, Halldór, and Hallveig_._"

The Queen's glass facade melts. My mother comes alive in the tired shadows under her eyes, her reedy smile, the way she uncrosses her legs and looks at the floor.

I am sorry I told her out loud that she and Odin never trusted me. Some truths are better left in the dark. I don't like causing Frigga pain.

My mother glances up. She regards me with an odd, masked smirk. "Is that Eja's dress?"

I look down.

"She's been looking for that dress." Frigga tugs the pale purple skirt.

"Eja has good taste." I show her a spin. I haven't been female in a long time. My center of balance is off.

Frigga smiles. "I will buy you your own dress, dearling. You shouldn't take other people's things."

"Shall I read to you, Mother?"

"Not now." Frigga takes my right arm. "Where did you get this scar?"

Oh. I had glamored the bullseye mark away on Midgard. Now, Eja's sleeveless dress shows it off: an odd, indented shape more like part of my forearm collapsed around a small pattern rather than a battle wound.

"Was this the Chitauri?" Frigga says.

"No," I quirk a smile. "When I rescued a ship full of orphans. Orphans bite."

Frowning, she turns my wrist over. "I have never seen a mark like it before. What weapon made this?"

"Honestly? I can't even remember _when_ I got it."


	12. The Measure of Odin's Empire

A fugue by O. Borson, arranged for quartet by L. du Vide

* * *

Gladsheim's gold-plate doors open on soundless hinges. I walk into glistening splendor with my heart between my teeth. The two great councils rise from decorated platforms high above me to honor my presence, terrible as sentinels in their scarlet and emerald. Beyond the councils and the nobles' equally decorous gallery, opposite the expansive free archways where the common people may shove each other aside for a view, is the dais with the citadel's infamous Twelve Seats. Odin's chief advisors. The most powerful men and women in the King's service.

Frigga squeezes my left hand. I've stalled at the threshold.

At her prodding, we walk forward into the blistering heat from a thousand thousand eyes.

The councils find their benches without breaking the anxious hush. The nobles smile and nod their heads. Frigga smiles back at them but I seem to have forgotten how. The entire chamber is a buzzing fever dream. The twelve golden braziers lining the hall as immense titans flood Gladsheim with a glittering unreal light. Polished gold walls sparkle with reflections within reflections. The intricate flooring gleams brassy as Frigga and I cross over intertwining knots larger than my suite. The Twelve Seats loom ahead in garish white shadows.

All of Asgard has turned out to hear how Odin-King intends to punish the vault thieves. I am sweating under my illusions. Frigga releases my hand and we part company before the dais. Tyr's mouth pinches a smile as I wade through the oceanic spectacle to stop below Odin-King's illustrious sweeping chair.

To call this chair a throne would be wrong; Gladsheim is as close to Greek Democracy as absolute-divine-monarchistic Asgard ever gets. A court-approved issue is presented by the King or a chief advisor, and the city decides. The king can be out-voted, refused, and, theoretically, even overthrown by Gladsheim.

My insides are a nest of vipers.

As second prince, I had privilege to my own Seat but not to my own division. I could vote on all issues brought before Gladsheim but any I raised had to pass through either Odin or, more usually, through the High Council's Chieftain Forseti.

I have never spoken at Gladsheim before. Now, not only will I have to submit before the entire city in attempt to sway them toward a radical plan, but I will have to do so while in character as the Allfather. Worse, I still have no idea how in Nine Godless Realms I'm supposed to prove anything I say is true.

I see Frigga smiling at me from her place in the noble's gallery. I set my shoulders.

There's nothing left to do but try.

"My Lord and Lady Chieftains," I begin. "Councils. Citizens of Asgard. Grievous news has come to me of late. I will not waste time with titles. You know who I am—" the crushed-up shaking part of me that is Loki wants to add, _and if not, you've got bigger problems than I can help you with_— "I have not come before you to grovel or kneel. I am direct descendant of Buri the First God, son of his first son, and in this dark hour I am also

/

—Your most grateful host," I gush to the Queen of Elves, all honeyed velvet. She extends a fine-boned hand for my kiss. Against the dark sanctuary foliage of Frigga's garden Queen Daina is luminous.

"You win me for surprises." Her violet-rimmed yellow eyes crinkle at the edges. "I expected the Aesir leader from centuries ago, who blusters and shouts."

Her party has dispersed, leaving us to talk politics in complete privacy. The elves may not distinguish between politics and pleasure, but they are even more monarchistic than we Aesir. The Elves don't bother with courts. Daina is Alfheim. She and I will talk, and the alliance will be decided.

"That Aesir leader is long gone," I say, laying on the charm with a smarmy smile that has never and _would_ never belong on Odin's face. "He has no idea what I'm getting up to in his guise. I fear we are no longer so close, he and I. My fair Elven friend, I hope that you permit me to humbly request for your presence at supper tonight. I am

/

—Lord of everything and better than this joke who calls himself a king."

King Nibelung III of Nithavellir bristles at my introduction. His fellow Dwarves grow still. They are little more than shadows in a golden room stacked with aromatic confections, dark-upon-dark in the midst of so much gleaming culinary treasure.

I add, sweeping an arm to encompass the ready-to-burst Royal Hall, "Eat your fill of this feast and be ashamed, for you cannot match me in wealth or stature."

"A fine feast it is," Nibelung III allows with a grudging cough. He considers me from below a bejeweled headdress. "But your tables are all old, and we Dwarves do not like old tables. If we sit down, I am afraid the wood will rot out from under us and we will be covered in this foul swill Odin Asgard King thinks is wine."

"This isn't going very well, is it?" Odin's attendant Sigg murmurs from my left.

"No," I say, and clap my hands together. "This is going splendidly. Sigg! Tell the cooks to throw out this garbage and reset the table immediately. Let us show these underbred dwellers of the dark that our cooks are the best in all nine realms, and will have a second feast displayed within the hour to their everlasting shame."

The Dwarven King shakes his head. Solemn refusal spreads through the party, until each Dwarf looks as if he would rather eat a live jarlslug than suffer my hospitality

/

—which is necessary for the survival of our realm," I explain to my audience at Gladsheim. Sweat is pricking behind my ears. I can't move to wipe it off. Nine pairs of eyes stare down at me from the dais. "Loki confessed to me before he died that his treasons were not purely for personal gain," I recite. "He did not act alone. He claimed to have invaded Midgard at the behest of another, whose forces have now succeeded in that task which my late son failed, and taken a very powerful weapon from our vault here on Asgard. This other's . . . name was told to me, by Loki. I have every confidence that the name is correct. We are now at war with Thanos."

Disbelief boils from the councils and commons in Gladsheim. Voices raise to cast this declaration aside. It is a mark to my credit that I love my second son Loki, they say, but I should know better than to believe anything ever uttered by that monstrous backstabbing coward.

They are furious.

They don't believe me.

I shut my eyes.

They think this is

/

_"__Nonsense,"_ Nibelung III spits. The Dwarven King takes a challenging step backward, toward the palace gates and the bifrost and, farther, Nithavellir. "Wish-you treat with us, Odin One-Eye? Since Asgard is too well incompetent to conduct the simplest meal, how could I trust an oaf such as you for talks? We will feast at Nithavellir instead." A grave insult.

Sigg flinches. Lord Aumdyn puts a threatening hand on his sword's hilt. I wave him off. My court glances from me to Nibelung, waiting to see how I will take this.

"A Dvergr feast?" I say, laying on the sneer. "You must be joking. Very well, I accept. My court will come with me to Nithavellir that we may eat your realm's wealth in a single sitting."

"Your Majesty?" Svaldir tries to head off what looks like a budding interrealm war.

He's wrong, of course. Nithavellir and Asgard are already at war. Nibelung's pride will see to that.

/

"War, smwar. Is this all you talk of?" Queen Daina complains over after-supper sweets while I pour us both more drink than we—strictly—need. "I haven't forgotten, you are aware, that our realms were supposed to be joined by now. Do you remember that, Odin-King?" She purrs my name.

No. I don't. I, Loki, wasn't privy to that little morsel of information. So . . . Thor was meant for Smirna? The heirs to two kingdoms, united in unholy matrimony. Ha! What my poor not-brother would think, if he knew. A fiendish smile slips out from under from my Allfather impersonation. I can't help it. "Which of them would be more horrified, do you expect?"

Daina laughs. "Yours. Mine at least found him fetching. I always thought a good compromise would be for both to keep lovers on the side. We Alfr do not shy from eunuchs the way you Aesir do."

Wine goes down the wrong pipe. I cough. How did Thor and Smirna become _eunuchs_?

Daina brushes her long tapering fingers up my arm. "You still do not approve. But yes, naturally. Why, that there can be no accidents? What, with the lovers, how better to have made sure that Smirna's children actually belong to her husband?"

I set down my drink. I'm shaking with suppressed laughter, and almost spill the wine. "My dear," I say in Odin's best no-nonsense voice, "If our children require live-in lovers to remain in the same household without killing each other, perhaps marriage is not the best option."

Daina's bloodless lips curve into a perplexed frown. "Oh, but what would you suggest? Smirna has her lover, who must be a eunuch so that she is not bearing children with him, and your son has _his_ lover, who must be a neuter as well for to ensure that no accidents occur and all children are of your line and mine."

This . . . negotiation is getting away from me. "You and I are very good friends, aren't we?" I say. "I hoped to join our realms in peace for all time. _Do_ you really think our children hate each other that much?"

The Elven Queen's perfect brow pinches into a sharp _v_. She blinks her yellow eyes as if I have just sprouted antlers. "But—Odin-King? Hate each other? Not at all. I thought . . . But I thought—but you said that Loki did not enjoy intercourse with women?"

/

_"__This is not how I envisioned our talk going,"_ I confess to Prince Frey of Vanaheim. His people are already on their feet, cheering.

/

_"__You didn't?"_ Nibelung III demands. "Why?"

"Why?" I repeat, feigning outrage. "Because I will not sit down to treat over a spread that does not include fried liben seeds."

The Dwarven feast hall is already alight with one hundred kinds of cooked meat, one hundred and fifty stews, and enough bread to build a castle. Tables carved from emeralds glitter before chairs hewn from other precious stones: rubies, sapphires; set with gold and onyx inlays.

"I," I say, "am _leaving_. This is beyond compare! You insult me by failing to set out this simple dish. We _will_ treat at Asgard or not at all. You should bring your entire court this time, that every Dwarven elder, adult, and child may know how poorly your people compare to the splendor of my realm."

/

_The Elven Queen cackles_. "Do not tell me you Aesir have become shy about mating? The look on your face could—a-hah—turn an army from its march."

"Not your army, I trust?" I have to steer us back toward war-talks. It's the only way my brain will de-explode.

"I think Loki would have been happy in this marriage," Dania says, ignoring me. "I think he would have found it suited him. He was a very logical man, your late son. So long as he did not share your squeamishness about eunuchs, and so long as he wasn't opposed to the entire idea."

I am opposed to this entire conversation.

Queen Daina says, "Is this why you never consummated the idea? You are terrified of the eunuchs, Odin-King? Tell me, please: although this plan will now never come to be, what would you have thought is an acceptable solution? Are our children wed only to be forced to seek pleasure in secret outside of their marriage? Risk your law and their reputations? What is the word you have for this? Adult-ery? Rather than an honest Alfr counter-marriage? Is this the life you will choose for your son? I would not choose this for my daughter."

"You are tying to unsettle me," I say.

Daina squeezes my hands in delighted confession.

Odin would surge to his feet and threaten her for daring to think she could prattle on about his late son so coarsely. He would insult her un-Asgardian morals, demand to know whether she meant to change her mind about the binding treaty Alfheim snubbed over a thousand years ago—and that would be the end of my attempt at alliance.

I say, "My dear, I am not unsettled about eunuchs or Elven counter-marriages. I am unsettled and—I dare say—_disappointed_ . . . that you would rather talk about what is past than the future we have together. Your daughter, Smirna, is still unwed."

"Yes?"

I suppress an evil grin. "I have another son."

Daina cuddles next to me, entwining her left arm in my right. "A royal wedding? You are so filled with surprises today."

"Many more than you might think." I raise my wine glass to her in salute.

"A royal wedding." She pats my elbow with her free hand. "The people of Asgard will love you for this. _I can just hear all the happy voices now . . ."_

/

_The common people and two Councils are in an uproar_. The Twelve Seats are twisted out of their chairs in debate, shouting over each other with reasons why I am wrong (although not in those words), why my information must be incorrect, why even if Thanos could someday escape his prison between realms he could never summon enough cowards to his side to fill out his ranks.

"Your Majesty," Chieftain Tyr interjects above the rabble. Gladsheim's deafening cacophony fades to a dull roar. "Even supposing this . . . horrible state of affairs is true—"

"You know me well, old friend," I growl. Frightened, hostile eyes stare down at me from all sides. "Do you think me a spoiled child or grief-mad over a murdering traitor, that I would come to this place with this tale if I were not absolutely certain?"

Quiet hangs a noose above my head. I wait for the last simmers to die away before tucking my hands behind my back—_damnit_, no, before dropping my arms habrium-stiff at my sides, fists clenched in a hard pose that says Odin is Angry.

I say—in Odin's voice—, "Thanos is returned. The Chitauri have discovered Vorsgard and it is only a matter of time before they use the Tesseract to break the curse restraining him. Your choice is not whether or not we should believe words sworn to your king by a madman. Your choice is, Shall we kneel to an enemy who has been plotting our defeat for millennia? Thanos sent his minions to Vorsgard during the Convergence knowing that we would have left behind enough technology to unlock his seal. What proof do I have to offer that all I say is true?"

I have no idea.

_He will make you long for something sweet as pain_.

/

_"__You are doomed today,"_ the Dwarven King says, when he and his court walk through the double doors into Odin's Great Hall. Towering golden dishes piled high with every conceivable food fill the space in a grand display, set upon gold tables lined with red velvet. Jewel-encrusted goblets, flatware, centerpieces, and enchanted braziers wink from any crevice not overflowing with things to eat and drink. Despite the feast to end all feasts I have laid out for them, King Nibelung III turns up his nose and rocks side to side which is, among Dwarves, a sign for boredom.

Despite their king's forced apathy, Nibelung's court eyes the glittering stacks with pinched, colorless faces.

"I have delights here from every corner of Yggdrasil," I say, waving an arm to encompass my splendor. "Should you desire Jotnar beer or Eldjotnar cuskalas, Alfr spicemeats or—I dare say—Dvergr scorpion bread."

"A fine display," Nibelung admits, although from whimpering hiss at the back of his throat one would think he is being tortured. "But . . ."

"Name your want," I say. "But what? You would prefer music to accompany this grand meal?"

Relief breaks across his face in a fragile wave—and then ratchets into wary skepticism.

I clap my hands. Alfr songbirds flutter down from ivory perches in an ephemeral blaze of scarlet and silver. The songbirds are accompanied by an orchestral troupe, masked in the shadows behind the high table. Sweet, haunting music fills my hall.

"I despise songbirds," Nibelung declares, smiling broadly. "All of this . . . feast—" he stumbles over the disgusted inflection he's attempting— "is little more than gilded poison. Your throne is as hollow as you taste in music, you overgrown garbage-ringer. We will have our talks on Nithavellir, or not at all."

Another Dwarf, dressed in messenger's white, hurries up to catch his king's ear. He's stumbling, shaken from just stepping off the bifrost, but I already know the frantic secret whispered to Nibelung. I feign irritation while the Dwarf King turns the color of rancid fruit.

"Muh—muh—_mm_," Nibelung stammers. He spins round to gape wild-eyed at me, and then at his messenger.

"Yes?" I demand. "What is this, now?"

When he doesn't respond with anything coherent, I turn to bark orders at my court.

"_Sigg_!" I wave him over. "Don't stand there with your tongue dangling loose; tell the staff to throw this feast away. We have no use for it."

Odin's attendant scampers off. Lord Aumdyn stomps up from my left and leans so close that I can smell his muscular foreboding like an angry armory. "Allfather," he murmurs.

"What is it?"

"You . . ." He glances over his left shoulder. I follow his line of sight, and see a small crowd sweating nervously in the corridor just outside the hall. Aumdyn wets his lips. "Sire. The War Council has expressed concern that Asgard cannot cover your expenses. If Your Majesty continues spending on these . . . uneaten feasts . . . the cost will rise beyond what the War Council has allotted for personal rights. This setting alone is estimated at a glance to be well over—"

"The War Council has expressed concern?" I repeat, eyebrows raised. It's hard to keep the smirk from my voice. "Has the War Council asked the treasury what my little expenses are costing Asgard?"

"The treasurers made no mention of it," Aumdyn says. "I thought perhaps they wished to keep His Majesty's expenditures to His Majesty."

"Really? How blindly noble of them."

To our right, King Nibelung III is in heavy whisper-mode with his court. The rancid-fruit color leaps from face to face. The entire Dwarven party looks ready to ignite.

Sigg returns with twenty strong men and women, who get to work painfully throwing out our golden tables, our golden plates, our delicacies and delectables from Nine Realms. Lord Aumdyn's strong pretty face curls in on itself. His jaw clicks.

"Wait!" King Nibelung cries.

I hold up a hand.

The golden waste-procession stops.

The Dwaven King strides toward me, black cloak billowing like a wraith.

"Why, my ugly little nemesis," I drawl. King Nibelung doesn't look remotely into insult-wars, now. He ignores my efforts with a half-hearted sigh. "I was making preparations to move my court to your realm, yet again."

"There will be no need for that," Nibelung III says. His huge shoulders sag. "It seems the Fates have cast their bones for you, Odin-Asgard-King."

"Oh? How so?"

Nibelung III puffs out his cheeks twice. He tries to simultaneously look me in the eye and not look up at me, which . . . well. Just makes me sad, honestly.

He finally admits, "I received news off from Nithavellir. I, Lord King of Shadows, must confess thus: I came for your noble feast today with intent to refuse your mighty hospitality no matter what splendor you laid before me—"

No, really?

"—for in secret I had already made plans to lavish my _own_ hall much more grandly than yours, that I might discredit you at last. However . . ." Rather than fruit, he now resembles a particularly embarrassed shadow. "This messenger tells me that raiders from the Fringe attacked my gold-hoard meant to pay for doing this to you. We are . . ." badly in debt, I think. "We are . . . willing to talk now, if Odin-Asgard-King is willing. In _Asgard_."

"Well!" says Sigg, who apparently feels some finger-wagging is in order. "Perhaps you deserved that for being dishonest. His Majesty is very busy and his time is very important."

"We'll set out a smaller meal," I say, "since I will not go back on my word once given. I declared this feast unfit, so out it goes in the trash."

Lord Aumdyn visibly bites his tongue.

"Sigg?" I say, smiling inside. "Tell the staff to throw everything out but—oh, that bowl of bread, there, beside the stuffed swan. And bring out one of the old wooden tables that our new very-_good_-friends feared might be unstable. If the Fates truly are in my favor, they will show their support with structural integrity."

As the Dvergr court shuffles to one side, Aumdyn approaches me again. He is not smiling, but his dark brown eyes have a distant gleam to them.

"Lord Aumdyn?" I say.

Aumdyn clasps his hands behind his back. He draws in a short, sharp breath. "The Fringe," he says. "How interesting that their pirates came from the Fringe."

"Oh? Why?"

"No reason at all, I do not think, but . . ." The left half of his mouth tips upward. " . . . I wonder how pirates from the Fringe knew a Dwarven king would have a gold-hoard en route through open space somewhere."

"A lucky shot?" I say. "Not so lucky for Nibelung."

Aumdyn nods. "I only thought it funny because your late s—" he coughs. "—The vile traitor," he corrects, without embarrassment, "whose name I will not speak, had many contacts in the Fringe. He used to lead Black Tower raids against derelict witch-harbors, there, as I am sure Sire remembers. Now . . . The Traitor's allies are on the rise and pirates from his past haunting ground have sent _our_ allies right to our table. Some men might take this for an omen."

A chill worms up my spine. "And _you_, Lord Aumdyn? Do you take this for an omen?"

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "One does not get so far as I in the Red Tower without recognizing that omens mean lives. I am the son of a farmer, who won a seat in the Council through dedication and loyalty. And intelligence. Observation. _Assets_, Sire. All assets. All unusual but necessary assets. _Assets_ win wars. _Assets_ include omens. Yes, I take this for an omen."

"And what sort of omen do you make this out to be, Lord War Leader?" I force an easy smile.

"_Retribution_."

His eyes burn bright.

I say, "Whose? The Fringe?"

Aumdyn shakes his head. The gold woven through his hair sparkles like a half-hundred torches. "_Ours_. The Traitor's allies mean to tear apart the Nine Realms but we are made strong instead, by chance. Do you see, Sire? We will see him defeated even beyond his death. Asgard will have her retribution."

On this happy note my sparkly friend wanders back to the Dwarven party, who are gathered around their simple feast in abashed hunger.

We sit down to eat plain black bread from a plain clay bowl, on plain wooden benches round a plain oak table. Once the feasting is done, we get down to talks. Once the talks are done, I judge it safe to release one of my many enchantments. The dismissed songbirds and orchestral troupe vanish; elsewhere, down the furnace chute, I suspect there is a vibrant green aurora. Every piece of my beautiful golden feast—every item that _wasn't _this bread bowl and accompanying wood table—turns back into stone bricks wrapped in gutter cloth.

/

Gladsheim watches me intently.

My palms are clammy.

_He will make you long for something sweet as pain._

"What proof," I repeat, "do I have to offer that in telling me of Thanos Loki spoke true?"

Tyr's calculating stare burns down at me from on high.

Frigga's eyebrows knit together in deplorable misery.

The two Councils, the Twelve Seats, and all the gathered peasantry are silent.

Now is the moment. If I have any last tricks up my sleeve, I need them. This is the lynchpin for the entire damn war.

Pausing around what I hope looks like an imperious survey of my kingdom, I cast about for anything that might convince them. Anything at all. How can Odin have a personal report with Thanos? He doesn't. He _can't_. Not if I want to keep his image. I _need _his image.

I need a . . . a . . .

Scapegoat.

A light switches on in my soul.

A sulfurous rush floods my veins. I glare up into the waiting masses, hating them all so much that I cannot speak. I know what to say to convince them. I know how to rig the game. I know how to win.

Never failed. It's never failed.

If I win, I will be wiped from every history book.

Never, never failed.

I will be cursed.

I will be erased, rather than merely forgotten as Odin-King's disappointing second son.

On the other hand, I can have fun exploring the limits of personal endurance with Thanos.

My skin grows cold.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

"What proof have I to this?" I say. My tongue is a dead weight.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

I am leering behind my mask. I have to leer. I can't not leer. If I don't leer, I'm going to—I'm going to—

I say, in Odin's ages-hard, indomitable voice: "Who do you think told the Chitauri where to find our homeworld? Vorsgard's location is a secret known only to Heimdall and a few of our magicians: sorceresses and sorcerers whom I am sure are beyond question . . . _and the royal family_."

And it's over.

Another moment sinks in what I've said. Frenzied bloodlust soars from the Seats and Councilors thick and black as flies. Rage pours from Gladsheim in an unquenchable tide.

_Loki!_ _Loki told them. Loki gave them Vorsgard!_

_Monster!_

Tyr's eyes have gone wide in astonishment.

Chieftain Forseti is on his feet, pleading for peace in the face of a hurricane.

I cannot look at Mother.

When the screaming courts and peasantry reaches a climax, I hold up my fist. "Who will stand with me against this evil?"

_I!_ roars the crowd.

"Who will?"

_I! I! I!_

"Our ancestors rose up against Thanos when he foolishly thought to make Asgard his thrall. Will we tell our ancestors that we were too frightened to do the same?"

_No!_

"Will we shame our fathers?"

_No!_

"Will we be like Loki, and betray the Nine Realms?"

_No!_

"Will Asgard fight? Will we cower in fear, or will we lead the other realms to war?"

_War!_

_War!_

_War!_

_ War!_


	13. Sympathy for the Devil

Disclaimer: Loki's views and opinions within the subject of religion belong solely to Loki, and are not indicative of any views or opinions held by the author. I tried to give him an outlook that matched his overall mindset; to do less felt dishonest to his character. I apologize if the few paragraphs on this subject offend as this is not my intent.

Those paragraphs will be the only time religion is discussed.

/

"Attention," says a mild-mannered voice when I-who-am-incomparable-Odin-King step through a world-gate into Tony Stark's New York penthouse. "Intruder alert. The police have been summoned."

"Summon your master instead," I command. "I would speak with him."

Small panels all along Stark's living area flick red, glaring across industrial gray walls and clean black furniture.

"Guest profile not recognized," the invisible attendant warns me, his cool voice never wavering from professional. "The police have been summoned."

Stark's penthouse is not frightening, even with the alarms triggered. One would think an important person such as he would invest in a few more security measures than _The police have been summoned_. I stroll to the kitchen area unchallenged.

"Sir," the attendant protests. "I suggest you leave the premises at once. The police are on their way."

"_I_ suggest you let me speak with your master. Tell me where he is."

A buzzer squawks. "Guest profile not recognized," the attendant repeats.

Fates below, he's worse than Heimdall.

The kitchen is empty, too. Two oranges and a bunch of bananas are rusting in a steel bowl. Polished appliances shine under pure white light. There is a photograph on the floor partway under Stark's fridge. I sweep it out with my toe.

Bent photograph. Dusty. Probably lost a while back.

A woman.

Inspiration jolts up my spine. I switch out my Odin-mask for the woman's likeness, turning my illusion's grizzled gray visage strawberry-blonde and pretty. I don't expect this to work, not unless Stark's attendant is—

The red panels blink off.

Stark's attendant says, "Good afternoon, Miss Potts. I apologize for not recognizing you. I have updated my database and called off the police. Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?"

I have to grin. This is . . . beyond measure . . . the worst security system I've ever met. Thanks to this police-ringing dullard, I-as-Miss-Potts could duck behind a doorframe and wait for Stark to return without anyone suspecting something's wrong. I could summon a knife at the last minute. Draw a smile on Stark's neck from ear to ear. I could jump from the landing pad outside and escape while the attendant is still politely warning me, _I have summoned the police_.

I say, "When will your master return?"

The attendant blares his buzzer. "Voice profile not authorized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password."

Voice profile?

I don't know what Miss Potts sounds like. I can't remember what Stark sounds like. I transform myself into Thor, instead. "Attendant! Summon your master. I must—"

Buzzer. "Voice profile not authorized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password."

Huh. All right.

At least he hasn't summoned the police again. I don't fancy dealing with Midgard's police on top of everything else.

The plain bread I shared for lunch with Nibelung has not done anything but whet my appetite, so I open Stark's fridge and help myself to his shelves. Stark has a tub of ice cream and little else by way of food, so I filch that along with a spoon and bowl. He also has a perfectly large liquor shelf. I make myself a drink and then carry this meager hoard to his maroon leather couch before the telly.

Stark has the largest telly I have ever seen.

Unfortunately, his flipper is either the smallest flipper I've never seen or it's nonexistent. A brief inspection proves that there are no knobs on his telly, either.

"Attendant?" I call as Miss Potts.

"Voice profile not recognized. Please speak Mr. Stark's guest password." I'm picturing, at this point, an enormous simpleton who's tediously memorized five or six standard phrases he enjoys shouting at innocent people. He probably skulks around in the corners, eating pudding with his hands.

"Where's the flipper?" I say.

Voice profile not recognized.

"How does he turn on the—?"

Voice profile not recognized. Please speak or type guest password.

A display winks to life from mid-air near my right hand. The display has keys like a semi-translucent typewriter and a blank box like the Internet search page Barton had been using.

I have no idea what the password might be.

Hacking into the picture-device is easier than dealing with Stark's manservant. In a few moments I've got the telly remapped to respond to simple hand motions, much like the divination scope on Vorsgard. I'm just contemplating the merits of cartoon bears frolicking in toilet tissue when a giant metal arm on wheels rolls right into my view. The construct is slow-moving. It blocks the cartoon bears degree by degree. I stay cross-legged on Stark's couch while it studies me with its eyeless rubber-tipped claw.

Is _this_ his security? A mechanical arm? If so, I'm not impressed. The giant arm might be good for hauling drunken guests out to the street, but would be near useless in a fight.

We stare each other down.

Then the giant arm rolls forward until it bumps against the couch.

It gently places a screwdriver on my knees.

I . . . pick up the tool in case it's an explosive or—

Nope.

It's a screwdriver.

It has some scuffs on one end and a worn metal hilt. There's even a discolored ring where the rod and hilt connect. It's not a weapon disguised as a screwdriver, or a transmitter, or . . . anything.

Feeling a bit uneasy, I set the tool on Stark's black polished coffee table.

It stays a screwdriver.

The giant arm makes a friendly warbling noise and rolls away, knocking the table askew as it goes.

I stare at nothing for a while. The telly goes on in the background, ignored.

All right. Between _I suggest you leave the premises_ and _Here have a free screwdriver_, I think Stark's household is madder than I am.

The arm does not reappear. It might be off sharing a pudding with the invisible attendant, who also does not return.

I settle into perusing the vast channel array Stark's telly provides. By the time a door in another part of the penthouse opens and closes, I'm on my third bowl and have decided that mortals are far more discerning with their television now than they were forty years ago. Also, that historical station about Midgard's ruling families makes me feel sorry for the poor innocent Lannisters. Tony Stark's royal ancestors were morons.

Footsteps clap along the stone floor through the hall on my right.

"Miss Potts is in the living room," Stark's attendant tells him, in the distance.

"Look, I know some things were said that—" Aha. Stark's voice. I'll remember for next time, and exchange Miss Potts's mask for Odin's. He rounds the corner and squeaks to a halt. "Honey, you got ugly in your old age."

"You just say the sweetest things."

"That's why you love me." Stark looks around his room for Miss Potts. "Pepper?"

"She isn't here. Your invisible attendant is easy to fool."

He stops in his tracks.

"I am Odin," I say. "King of Asgard."

Stark goes rigid. Not, _Wow! The High King of Yggdrasil! _rigid; more _How can I make you go away?_ rigid.

That's new.

He sucks in a breath. He seems to think about it. He says, "Thor's daddy?" in rather the same tone I would expect for my own name.

"That's right."

"Ok." Stark jerks back to life and starts pacing his grey stone floor, staying several meters clear from me. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go find Thor and leave me alone. I'm not in the mood for alien space Vikings today." He pauses. He pivots round to face me, brow furrowed. "Is that my ice cream?"

"And I'm watching your telly," I say.

This makes him pause again, although I'm not sure why. He stares from me to his picture-device and back. He drums his right hand on his thigh. "Are you British? Why are you British? Do you come from Valhalla, England?"

_That_ took an unexpected turn. I set down my spoon. Valhalla? _Odin_? Ew. "Are you . . . chatting me up?"

"There, you did it again—Wait. No. Why would—?" He squints. "_Chatting me up_. _Telly_. Why are you speaking _English _English? You have a British accent. Thor doesn't have a—"

"I am not speaking English," I say. "I am speaking Allspeak. Your feeble mortal brain is interpreting what I say into your native language."

"You said _telly_," he says, as if this is a sticking point. "And you—"

"Because that is the name of your picture-device."

"Yeah, in the UK."

I work at levering more ice cream from his container into my bowl, because I know this will irritate him. "I need to speak with SHIELD."

"Ha! Good luck. If you can find what's left—tell you what, don't tell me about it."

The ice cream unsticks with a gentle plop. "What do you mean, If I can find what's left?"

"They're gone. Exploded. Bye-bye." Stark strides forward. He snatches his container, as if I'm a beggar who's wandered in off the pavement. Stark deposits his ice cream on the bookshelf behind him, away from me. "Also, you. Bye-bye."

It isn't every day someone dismisses Odin. I have to suppress a smile. I want to cheer him on.

I'm resigned to say, in the Allfather's gravest voice, "I need your help. Asgard needs your help. You, and the other Avengers."

"Shit." Stark scrubs at his left eye with a fist. "Do _not_ tell me your asshole son broke out of space prison."

"He did."

"Is it too much to ask that people capable of building a stargate can keep Psycho Diva and his one-color Rubik's Cube locked up? Please tell me you remembered to take his glowstick away before carting him off to Azkaban. I gotta say that's on you, buddy."

"Loki is dead," I tell him.

"Good riddance."

I think I liked Stark better when he was trying to chat me up.

"That isn't—" I sigh. Being Odin is more a prison than my cell. I amend, ". . . why I am here. There is a grave threat growing on a planet in Asgard's domain. An invasion is planned for two days' time to cancel this threat, but in the event that this invasion fails every being in our realm and yours will be under attack. I came here to extend an offer of alliance, and to warn the guardians of Earth that such a time may come when we need to unite against a dangerous foe."

Stark stuffs his hands in his pockets. He makes an exasperated sigh, as if I am telling him this specifically to annoy him.

I like him.

"You must find the others SHIELD once brought together to defend your world from the Chitauri," I say.

"Yeah, about that." He gives me a dirty look. "I'm still getting crazies on the roof trying to sacrifice a goat so Reindeer Games will come back and cleanse the world of sinners."

I smirk, although Odin wouldn't. This is the best conversation I've had in some time. Which is sad. "Ah. Religious sadomasochism at its finest."

Stark cocks an eyebrow. "You're some kind of expert on the human race, now?"

I relax into his couch, smiling—although again, Odin wouldn't. "I have lived in your realm many times. Most recently, yes, in London."

"Ha. Nailed it."

"I've noticed that certain individuals among you react to a deity—rather than by trying to live in love and harmony as is almost unanimously prescribed—but by acting as frightened children eager to please a cruel master by biting each other in the neck."

"This from the alien douchebag responsible for the Vikings?" Stark eyes me, and nods. "Yeah, good going."

"But Asgard is a harmonious city," I protest in sing-song. "We don't attack innocent populations. We defend the cosmos from evil. Every schoolchild knows that."

"Yeah, well. You can bet the media's been a factual blast dealing with Tall, Dark, and Spiky's attack in New York. About half the country thinks the Biblical Apocalypse has started and the guy with the horned helmet is Satan."

"They're fangs," I tell him. "Serpent's fangs."

"Yeah? Why are they upside-down?"

I have to pause when the image of downward-pointing fangs fills my head. Er. Both literally and figuratively.

"I think he should have started over," Stark muses. The same image is imprinting itself in his brain, apparently. "Chosen a different spirit animal."

"What you said about horns," I say, to change the subject to something less horrifying. "I suppose that shouldn't come as a surprise. Your Christians taking the Norse stories and trying to fit us into archetypes they are familiar with, I mean: Odin—myself—must be God, making Thor Jesus . . ." My lip curls. "Leaving Loki cast as Lucifer to round out the set. Huh. That is actually a frighteningly good comparison—Lucifer and Loki."

Stark looks surprised. "No love lost between father and son, I take it. Was it the helmet? Cause I'm not kidding. That was a hideously stupid helmet."

Is not a stupid helmet.

"You misunderstand." A warning pulse races through my chest. I have the odd sensation of being outside myself, watching myself, knowing what I'm doing and at the same time I know I shouldn't do it. _Be a good puppet_. _Keep your mouth shut. Be Odin. _But being around Stark gives me a warm glittery feeling that I don't particularly like. It's distracting. Something in his irreverent deadpan snark, or his rumpled hair. The way he keeps moving around, as if standing still too long causes him physical pain.

After the invasion, I might come back to give him a forcefield generator. Just a small one. A personal shield, maybe—something he can tinker with. I wonder what he'd do with it.

I need to stop thinking about that.

I tip my head against his couch cushion so I can clear my thoughts by studying his ceiling. "I never understood why Satan and Judas were made targets for such ire. If Jesus planned to be executed in order to save your Christians, than he must have plotted to have himself turned over to the Romans. Is that right? Judas is not his betrayer. Judas is his dearest friend and accomplice. Judas is the one Jesus turned to when he needed a dirty scheme for the greater good."

Stark makes a huffing laugh. I can hear him shifting from one foot to the other. "Uh, that's—I guess—an interesting take."

"And as for Satan," I continue, "if God rejects sinners and Satan punishes sinners, then both God and Satan are on the same side. If Satan and God were truly enemies, God wouldn't let Satan be in charge of Hell. The true enemy of God would reward sinners, not punish them. Satan would steal souls from Hell to fill out his own demented paradise, not imprison them under torture because they disobeyed God. You don't let the Soviet Union run your traitors' prison, after all—or at least, I hope you don't."

"Okay," Stark says. I glance over. He's waving a hand at me to distance himself from the conversation, turning away. "You need to talk with a priest. Or an exorcist. Probably an exorcist. I'm the wrong guy for this, uh, whatever _this_ is."

I hesitate, and offer: "I will leave you with a last point, then. Do you remember the Convergence? If Loki hadn't played the villain to convince Asgard we needed to extract the Tesseract from your realm _and_ convinced your armies to relinquish it into our hands, the Chitauri would have poured through these natural gates unchecked. There would have been no convenient device on your side to shut down and stop the invasion. Once the hive came through your world would have died."

"I'm sure he had all that in mind when he threw me out a window."

"Asgard was too well-defended for them to risk a direct assault," I explain. "Our fleet would have torn theirs apart. The Tesseract was safe during the Joining of Realms."

Stark is drumming his fingers on his thigh again. I can tell he's losing interest. Although Stark is on his own world what a sorceress is on mine—a lifelong scholar with an unslakable lust for knowledge—clearly his ambition does not extend into the political.

I suppress a sigh. That doesn't matter. I finish Odin's self-aggrandizing speech with, "If Thor returns to Earth to rally your Avengers, you all must go with him to Asgard."

And _that_ catches his interest. His fingers go still. Stark's jaw quirks to one side as if he wants to stifle an imaginary yawn—but there is a sharp light in his eyes. "Asgard is . . . where you space Viking guys live?"

"Hope we do not fail," I make Odin tell him. "But if we do, you will get to see that stargate." I'm assuming _stargate_ is Midgardian for world-gate.

Stark makes a last play for bored but fumbles his frown twice. He finally shrugs. "Yeah. Ok. If you guys drop the ball—again—I guess I can save your asses. Cause you asked so nicely." He locks his arms across his chest. "Maybe. No guarantees. Maybe. If you're real good."

I get up from his couch, preparing to depart back to the realm of three royal courts teeming with Odin's bloodthirsty sycophants. The telly blares in the background, some advertisement for a car brand with which I'm not familiar as mortals in hats chase each other on a cobbled street. Rain streams from a night sky without stars. A pale madwoman with wild white hair points a gun at something off to her left. A red telephone is ringing, at her elbow.

The madwoman with funny hair—

Oh. That reminds me.

I say, "May I ask you a question?"

"Am I always this awesome?" Stark pretends to guess. "Yes. Yes I am."

I check a smirk. "Does your world still have mental hospitals?"

Stark's eyebrows raise. "Thinking you should lock yourself in? Good idea."

"Just a matter of personal curiosity. Once, a while back, one could say that a disheveled soul looks like an escapee from a mental hospital."

He makes a so-so kind of motion. "Why?"

"I like to keep abreast of your world's latest developments. The last time I was in New York I made sure to learn the English King's name that I could declare myself a loyal subject and so better fit in with the locals. The year was 1775."

"Oh, shit." Stark smiles.

"Shit is right. I was shot through the heart and when I didn't die the locals tried to burn me at the stake for witchcraft. I miss the Scottish peoples of some decades before that. Oh well. No matter. I will take my leave now. Pray—if you pray—that I do not return."


	14. Interlude: A Lesson on Perseverance

A/N: Thank you for the kind review :)

Sorry for the delay, I got all the way through what was supposed to be "Chapter 14" only to realize that the chapter I'd planned to go after that would actually do better going before. I went back and quickly wrote this new "Chapter 14", and the original "Chapter 14" is now "Chapter 15". The upshot is that we have two new chapters rather than one, LOL.

Also: mild warning for Asgard's misogynistic warrior culture.

/

Chapter 14: 

Interlude: A Lesson on Perseverance

This might sound odd, depending on what culture you are from, but being royalty on Asgard does not hold with it any inherit rights. Your father is King because he is the fiercest, most powerful warrior—or, in rare cases, the most venerated sage—but you, my friend, are neither. You have a title only as a courtesy to him. If you are a prince, this means that your father may one day pass the throne to you, if you are worthy of it; in the meantime you are just a skinny gangly youth who has not yet earned respect through prowess on the battlefield. You are certainly no better nor worse than the sons of your father's staff.

At twelve years old I envisioned myself worthy in a red cloak, and even if I had grown out of my Bor phase I still wanted to be Asgard's premier warrior. I lived for the dream that I would one day serve my father's honor in the War Council along with Father's closest friend, the noble Chieftain Tyr. One day, I knew, that most excellent hero would choose me from among all the city's warriors to serve as his War Leader. War Leader Loki, that's who I was. Being that I outmatched my brother in every way except crass brute strength, I would find glory in the War Council and retire only when Father would of course pass the throne to me in my turn.

How proud I would be, rising beloved through the Red Tower and then set to become warrior King of Asgard. I would command the most fiercesome army in the cosmos, at the head of a glorious empire spanning Nine full Realms (well . . . seven, really, but who's counting Svartalfheim or Jotunheim?). I would rule with a stern—but just—hand. I would be celebrated by legend and history. I would be feared by my enemies, and worshipped by my subjects. So, when I reached the summer of my twelfth year, Father sent Thor and I to War Academy where we joined every other boy of means in setting out to earn our place in society.

War Academy is more-or-less what you'd expect. The trouble is, knowing a thing isn't really understanding a thing. _Yes_, when a boy of status reaches his Age of Manhood—or soon thereafter—he is snatched from the gentling cradle that is his mother's house and handed over to the city's top fighting masters for intensive, rigorous training in field combat. I couldn't wait. _Yes_, the training lasts about twenty-five years. So short? Well, I'd enjoy it while it lasted. At graduation, he will be ready to fight for Asgard's honor should his King so command. Again, I couldn't wait. He will have reached his Minor Majority. He will be eligible for apprenticeship or find work as a councilor's attendant. All of that is glory upon glory. But—do you know what War Academy really meant? My day stopped being a fascinating buffet of interests from physics to Jotnar poetry and focused instead mind-numbing repetitive point.

Mock battles. Weapons practice. Hand-to-hand combat. Endurance training. Drills. Navigation. History of the great campaigns. Hero-worship of dead men. More battles. More endurance training. More weapons practice. More hero-worship. More practice. More and more, over and over and over. The same structure, the same schedule, these same activities at another person's whim, every day minus holidays for every week of every month for twenty-five years. No more poetry. No more physics. No more chemistry.

War Academy was a prison—and one whose inmates take it upon themselves to make living there Helish.

Oh, they told our parents we are learning important skills: wilderness survival, team drills, honing our fighting techniques, and for the most part that's true—but what we really learn is that your new friends will pour boiling water down your back if you cry in the sparring arena. Weakness is a curse worse than any other. Sigg Eimerson might thump your back if you call him a son of a Jotun whore, but if you call him _weak_ he'll black your eye.

By age fourteen I had already reached the average height for an adult Aesir male, but to everybody's dismay my venerable size did not come with equivalent stamina. Worse, there seemed to be something . . . _wrong_ with me. My lungs liked to give out if I ran too far too fast. My bones broke easier than they should have. I took longer to heal. I had to be careful with hygiene even in the field, because infection dripped from every neglected wound. I got every sickness that came around.

I was going to be King. I was going to be War Leader. When was my strength going to catch up to my height? Thor finally grew, and by our fifth year he could look over my head. When was I going to get tougher?

_Loki the Sick. Loki the Snot. Don't touch him. He's w—_

I was done for as soon as I figured out that playing alchemy with the opposing team's breakfast finished a battle in my hall's favor more effectively than fighting them. Retaliation from both their side and mine put me in the healing ward, where the Master of the institute refused to let me be treated so I could really, _deeply_ learn my lesson.

_You're a man, now. Stand amongst men. Manly, mannish, a matter for men. Live with honor, as men should. _These were the mantras I learned. _Have they sent us a boy or a girl? What is that clinging to his mother's skirts? Womanly, womanish, of women, go back home to your mother's teat_. I spent the next year in more fights than I could count, and finally gave up playing the right way when playing the right way meant _I lose_.

Princess Loki, Loki the Girl, Loki the Snake, Loki the Sneak.

_You brought this upon yourself_, the matron healer said, and I hated her for it. _Do something nice for them and they'll stop_.

She didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Show my underbelly? Never. That's _weak_.

_They have a right to take revenge_. This was the other mantra I learned. _Why do you keep provoking them?_

But, but _they_—

_Where is your honor? You bring shame upon your Father._

_Sort it out yourself_, Father said. _War Academy is the place where we must learn how to navigate the adult world. How can you rule a kingdom if you cannot solve these juvenile disputes?_

I had to win.

I had to win, or I would lose my entire future. My blood turned to bile with terror at the thought. I couldn't sleep. The other boys were stronger. There were too many of them.

I _had_ to win.

Mother had the most practical solution. One night, she took me into her private suite and taught me the runic alphabet. Each rune had a name and thaumatological _sound_ associated with it, and if I could learn the little twists of will the represented the _sounds_ I could string them into paragraphs to preform a few simple spells.

She taught me a spell to make many illusions of myself, all standing together like a warband.

_To deter bullies_, Mother said. _That should be enough_. She had me practice until I could summon mirror images on command. The other Lokis weren't real, though. I'd been hoping I could make them fight for me, but the spell didn't work that way. They were for camouflage rather than attack. They stood in place, frozen in whatever pose I had been in upon conjuring them, so I could hide.

That's _weakness_.

I knew I would never stoop to using them in combat, but that didn't make the spell entierly worthless. I spent the midwinter holiday planting them where I knew Thor would be, because there's nothing like coming back from a run only to turn around and see three frozen Lokis on your bed diligently excavating their inner nostrils.

/

Doom weighed heavy on my soul the night before Thor and I were supposed to go back to our sixth year at War Academy. Midwinter holidays finished, we holed ourselves up in our shared suite to pack or—in my case—avoid packing. A cold listless knot swelled in my stomach, growing bigger with every passing hour.

War Academy was a black hole in the universe from which there was no escape. I slithered under my sheets only to peel my bedding aside and crawl out again. I sulked onto my balcony with a book, and spent more time making up excuses why I didn't want to read than actually turning the pages.

I ran water in our tub and climbed in up to my eyes to soak. The marble bath chamber echoed with voices: _Why can't you fight like a man? Is he a man? They've sent us a girl by mistake. Let's find out._

It happened as a fire in my soul: I realized what I had been unable and unwilling to face for five and a half years. I didn't want to go back.

I never wanted to go back.

How was I going to be King if I didn't finish War Academy?

There was no way out. I couldn't just _quit_ War Academy the way one might quit a lesson on songwriting or some other frivolity. Boys studied war. Whoever heard of a boy who couldn't fight? It would be like a girl who couldn't sing ballads. She might be ugly as a goat and cold as a Frost Giant, but if she could awe her husband's guests with tales of great warriors she was a good wife to have.

Girls had it easy. Memorize a few dozen songs and you're the grandest woman on Asgard. Charm some mighty warrior and spend the rest of your life in glory through his heroic sons. Girls didn't have to worry about being King. Girls didn't have to worry about someone calling them weak or fighting to prove they weren't. Girls didn't have to go to War Academy. Girls were lucky.

Why did girls get to be free? Mother got to sleep in. Mother didn't have to sit in a tub with her heart rotting in her chest because she was scared that she was going to fail in the thing she had wanted since she was a child.

_Wea—_

No. The word didn't belong to me. It didn't belong _about_ me. Angry, I slugged out of my bath streaming water I knew I wouldn't bother to mop up. My legs wobbled. I caught myself on the tub's edge.

_Weak_.

I shivered reaching for my towel.

In the long mirror, across the tub from me, I caught sight of the unwanted skinny wiry youth whose muscles weren't grow—

What the holy hell—?

My fingers turned to clay. The towel slipped from my hand to flop lifeless on the tiled floor. Standing nude between two huge potted plants, my reflection in the mirror was a skinny wiry _girl_ with sunburnt skin and a round mouth gaping wide in horror.

My sanity fell out one ear and splattered on the floor beside the towel. I looked down. I looked at the mirror. I looked down.

Eerie calm spread under my skin.

I called, "Thor? Thor? Get Mother."

Had I been cursed? This was a new low.

A few moments later—a lifetime in limbo, shivering in the wrong flesh with weird bits where bits shouldn't be and no bits where they should—my brother must have put his nose to the door because his voice sounded impossibly close and distorted. "Are you well?"

" . . . No." There was no fear. My voice came out all warbled but I couldn't stop that. Raw emotion, terrible and wild, filled me up from head to foot.

"You sound unwell." I could hear him frowning. Even through the door I could smell the wheels turning in his head. The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost reverent with worry. "Loki, have you made yourself ill?"

" . . . No."

He tapped his knuckles on the wood in a tentative knock. "Let me see."

"No."

The knob shook.

What was I going to do? There was nothing else for it. I shimmied into my clothes and opened the door.

Thor said, "What are you doing in here?"

"Turning into a girl?" I pulled my shirt tight around my chest so he could see.

His eyes got huge. His left foot crept backward, like he wanted to bolt. "Is this more magic?"

"No. I don't know. I don't think so. I think I'm cursed."

He started laughing. His panicked, breathy giggles snapped a tension inside my chest. After a few sputtering heartbeats, I joined him.

"You—" Thor said. He put a hand on my shoulder. My slender shoulder. He patted my collar, either to soothe me or himself. Possibly both. "You—you can't go to War Academy like that."

"I know." Muffled terror sparked somewhere under my ribs. Terror, and something poisonous and sinister. "Will you just tell Mother? She might know a spell to put me right."

His brows twisted together in a stern face destroyed but his ear-to-ear grin. "You shouldn't have been playing with her magic."

"I don't think it's me. I think this is somebody's idea of a joke. I can't even _do_ anything with magic. Mother just taught me a stupid spell to make clones. Nobody turned into a girl by making clones."

"That you know of," he said.

We burst into nervous laughter again.

"Nobody!" I said. "Clones are just . . . clones. They don't even talk. They're not really real. Just shadows. Anyway," I added, because he still looked like he had a lecture burning a hole in his tongue between the giggles, "there are men sorceresses. I've seen some. If there are men sorceresses, magic can't turn a person female."

"Male sorceresses do not count as men," Thor said, but he began breathing easier.

He got Mother. Mother brought Father. For some reason, the sight of their second son lounging on his bed as a girl did not horrify them. Father's expression didn't turn thunderous. He didn't swear oaths about someone shaming the House of Odin. Mother didn't weep. Father nodded calm dismissal at my grey-faced brother and shooed him away easy as he would a servant. Mother closed my bedchamber door.

"Are we going to talk about periods?" I said.

"Loki." Father hesitated. He looked like he wanted to say something difficult, but instead he merely asked: "How did this happen?" so I took them through the past twenty minutes, skipping the part where I didn't want to go back to War Academy.

Mother and Father shared a glance.

They still weren't raging.

Father sat down on my bed with me. Mother gave me a hug and told me she loved me. Father seemed to be warring with himself about something. He looked at me for a long time without speaking. Then he gave up whatever he'd been thinking about and wrapped me in his arms too.

Father said, "I could try to force your shape into that of a boy, but I think you need time to work out how you changed so that you can change back if this happens again."

"You think _I_ did this?" I recoiled from their duel embrace.

Father ruffled my hair. "I don't think on purpose, no. Your mother tells me you have great innate ability in magics. That doesn't surprise me. Your father was a skilled magician, in his time."

"You're still a skilled magician," I said obediently.

Father rubbed my back. I threw my arms around him.

_This_ was what I had been burning under, in War Academy. The unspoken adult fear that their love for me might be gone, that I would reach for Father and he'd tell me to stop embarrassing myself. _Grow up. _That I might have never gotten to hug them again, that Father would never let me sit with him while he worked again, that Mother would turn her attention to other things—who would want to live like that?

Father let me go, helped me sit up. "Stay home for the next week. I will write to the Patron Master and notify him of your absence."

"Yes, sir." I didn't dare show any of the sunlight beaming through me. It wasn't victory, but it was a stay of sentencing. Suddenly, the sinister feeling had a name: relief.

_Relief_ at a cowardly, unworthy thing. What kind of man took solace in hiding? Was I weak? What was I?

King.

Maybe it was all right that I wouldn't be the premier warrior, but I would still make Father proud. How could I not make him proud, when he had done so much for me? I was going to win. I had to win. It didn't matter if everyone at War Academy shunned me, I would make myself worthy in his eyes.

I would not lose my entire future.

I would rather die.


	15. A Ghost in Asgard

Annnnd here's the other chapter.

/

I spend a solid forty-two hours building my own pyre boat and rallying kingdoms around the blaze. Loki the Vile has betrayed all of Yggdrasil for the greatest enemy our realms have ever known; no, Asgard will not sit still for that.

The High Council petitions his father the King—or, Odin, at any rate—to Unname "the Traitor". With the public clamoring for blood at their side, I have no choice if I want to maintain my cover but sign the damn documents. Loki is stricken from all records, blotted from his family line, made nothing. In Asgard's eyes he is no longer capable of owning land or thralls, unfit to find employment, unfit to wed. He has no ancestors. He is no longer a person. Legally, he is nothing more than a walking, talking, bag of meat. It's ironic, but hatred for "the Nameless Wretch" is what motivates Asgard to do what I need them to do . . . to protect myself. Thank you, Asgard.

Alfheim, meanwhile, has slotted into place with promise of my erstwhile brother's hand. All that remains to secure this bond is the wedding itself, which means recalling Thor from his happy mortal honeymoon to palm him off with Smirna—who hates him. Destroying Asgard-Midgard marriages is becoming a time-honored royal tradition, it seems.

Nithavellir, on the other hand, is doing everything in its financial power to help solidify the inter-realm alliance by contributing the absolute minimum required not to make Asgard declare war on it instead. If I hadn't already taken a downpayment from them by way of sending Black Tower guards after a suspected pirate fleet on its way to the Fringe, I might be seeing a darker shade of red than I am. I am worried, however, that this minimum-contribution plan is evidence of worse than greed. Nithavellir has no forthcoming wedding to bind their fate with ours. Nithavellir is a free agent. They could be planning to betray us.

So. In between all the logistical puzzles that go into planning a four realm joint invasion, plotting to stab my not-brother in the heart—enduring Frigga's sour mood because I erased one of her sons and engaged the other against his will—, and keeping one eye on King Nibelung's court . . . there is the actual matter of going to war.

The two Councils vote to annihilate the Chitauri Hive, rather than negotiate a surrender as we did with Jotunheim so long ago, and I am more than happy to stamp _this_ decree. Chieftain Tyr advises me to make our genocidal campaign twofold: first, a ground force will drive the Chitauri to Vorsgard's surface, then an aerial fleet will smash the survivors. I opt to command the fleet. Thor can lead the ground force, when he returns. Thor is good at that kind of thing. However. All this planning leaves aside one very important problem. Vorsgard has a single drop point due to its ward system, and the Tesseract could be anywhere on or under the planet's surface.

Asgard usually relies on the Black Tower to solve these issues. Aesir and Vanir mages can pinpoint a powerful magic artifact, which in this case would give our invasion a specific target to aim for. Thanks to the spy in our ranks, I can't have the Black Tower privy to martian details. I don't want to worry that the coordinates they give me are a trap. But shunning the Black Tower means relying on Elven mages. The Councils like this idea about as much as if I'd asked Laufey's sons to supper. When I further tell them that upon recovering the Cube I will hide it from us and from everyone else at the farthest edge of the Universe . . . they—

Hmm.

They submit a mass-approved petition to my personal desk. Tyr tries to corner me. Odin-King does not have the _right_ to steal the Tesseract from our hands. Not when the weapons vault is gone. Jotunheim has the Casket, the Chitauri have the Gauntlet and the Tesseract. We need whatever advantage we can grab now that we will go follow our invasion by war with the Frost Giants.

Assets, Lord Aumdyn repeats ad infinitum. _Assets_ are important. Assets win wars.

None on Asgard understand what that blue cube does. It isn't a weapon, or a power source—like the mortals thought. I cannot let Asgard have the Tesseract. The Tesseract would never stay on Asgard. Someone somewhen would make a powergrab, and that would be that. I've got to find time to plan my flight with the Cube. If all is successful I've got to snatch it and go before anyone figures out what I'm doing. But if tomorrow's joint invasion fails and Thanos's curse is broken, we need to mount a fight for our lives.

The Tesseract is an object, infinitely powerful, able to render faraway visions or tear holes in space. Imagine a sorcerer having the power to spy undetected upon his enemies. Imagine seeing what plots the rebellion is up to just by willing it. One could march a legion to war with no more effort than crossing a room. _Infinite _teleportation. Not sorry world-gates, a handful of Jotnar or Aesir at a time. Imagine teleporting an assassin into your enemy's bedchamber past any wards they care to construct. Imagine teleporting the enemy army from the battlefield into a volcano. Such a sorcerer would be a god. We're lucky the Chitauri aren't sorcerers. And Thanos never showed the Other this power.

Thanos showed me the truth. He showed me many truths.

Some grisly eternities into my stay with the Chitauri, he had me brought to his private sanctum in a palace built from space debris. For the first time since my rebirth I had darkness, cool soothing air, no watching eyes. Thanos did not touch me. He let me rest, strapped to my pallet in one corner, while he worked nearby. My life had ordinary sounds again: data canisters and soft voices, quiet meetings, lunch. He gave me food every time someone brought him a tray.

He spoke to me, too, until I uncurled from my hiding place. He asked for my opinion on this public matter or that, as if I were anybody.

I loved him.

And yes—He told me about the Tesseract, because he was a prisoner just like I was. The Tesseract was his window. Even from afar he could use it to conjure images from other places. He showed me how it worked: There were battles raging on worlds I'd never heard of, and we could be a private audience to people I'd never met dying by the thousands. He could slither into anybody's life he wanted. We watched the universe dance like a pageant show of private horrors. We watched War, and

I should have taken the damn thing with me when I raided Odin's vault, but the thought of touching it makes me feel deeply unclean. There is no water in the cosmos that can wash away all the faces I've seen through its lens in Thanos's sanctum.

With the invasion drawing near, memories meld with nightmares and I wake up shivering in sweat and worse, torn in a warped dreamworld that doesn't entirely abate once I figure out I'm still on Frigga's divan. I see faces in the mirror that aren't mine. I forget where I am. Sometimes, I wake up in places I know I didn't go to sleep in. I find myself standing in a corner with my head against the wall, wearing my original face and not Odin's. During the day, my heart starts pounding hard in my chest and I can't get enough air. My chest and brain do not belong to me. They are a separate parasite inhabiting the space that used to be mine. I have to cast silencing spells least I rouse her from her bedchamber down the hall, or draw the guards for the noise I make.

It is a terrible thing to not be in control of your own body. I fear sleep more than I fear the spy in our midst. A spy must play her part in the same way I'm playing Odin—we are kindred, she and I. I can shunt aside our magic-casters and pretend it's in shame for my Unnamed ex-son. I can't shunt aside my nightmares.

I can't let Frigga know about this.

I can't let anyone know about this.

Odin-King shouldn't be white-faced from insomnia, trying to keep his heart from exploding. He shouldn't be pacing the Royal Tower, invisible, hiding from the patrols as if they are his captors and not his trusted defenders.

Tomorrow's invasion may be eating my schedule and weighing on my nerves, but this sleepwalking thing and panic-y thing needs to stop. I have to visit Eir.

/

The Healing Tower is shoved as far from the council towers as one can get without leaving the palace. Guest halls, kitchens, servant quarters, storage, barracks, the royal tower, the royal library, more kitchens, more servant quarters, and Frigga's indoor garden all separate the War Tower and its lesser twin, the High Tower, from having to acknowledge that we Aesir are not truly immortal. The walk from one side to the other is a tedious humiliation, mitigated in my case because I could always pretend I'm really heading to an important meeting with the King or to my favorite pastime-cum-sanctuary, the library. I'm not the only one who does this, either. I used to have fun inflicting my company on any councilor or warrior heading "to the Royal Tower" with his back unusually straight and a thousand-yard stare. My walk from Odin's private suite to this place of shame passes in furtive isolation, thank the Fates. Odin-King has even less room for weakness than the Vile Traitor did.

The Healing Tower itself is a dark maze-like structure, built so that patients can be shuffled out of sight upon entering lest they compound the ordeal by coming across anyone they know. Drab stone walls lit by torches give the place a sober, silent heaviness. The healers dress in grey to be unobtrusive and are strictly female-shaped persons, that everyone's pride remain as intact as possible. No male-shaped persons are permitted to work here.

I-Odin-King am ushered behind a wall into a receiving room by a red-cheeked grey shadow, who assures me with her head down that the Matron Healer will be along in a few moments. When Eir does step into sight with her equally drab, sober brown hair piled upon her drab, eternally-scowling head, I throw on an affable grin and say, "On Alfheim the Healing Tower is a sunlit, open-air conservatory full of children's laughter and song."

"Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer the healers of Alfheim," Eir retorts. Her unimpressed expression never falters.

O . . . kay then.

I resist the automatic twitch that tries to hitch my mouth into a disquieted smile. There is one thing you can say about Eir, however: because she so obviously doesn't care, it is easy to believe that she will not breathe a word to anyone about anything admitted to her in private. The Healing Tower is a crypt of buried secrets. I should very much like to plunder the vaults, one day.

I compose my face into a belligerent Odin-scowl and say, "I cannot sleep without waking up in other places. Both in the real sense and . . . otherwise. In my head. My nightmares intrude into reality." I am oddly detached, telling her this. As if I'm relating someone else's troubles. I take a breath. "There's more. There's . . . something wrong with me."

"Wrong how?"

"I don't know. I'm living two lives, somehow. The one where I'm here, and the one where I'm . . . still somewhere else. I think the most urgent solution I need is an ability to sleep through the night in one place."

Eir skips over the prickly taboo of my confessed weakness without so much as flinch. She says: "I have a potion to numb your memory and one to cauterize the wound. Which would you prefer?" and that's the end of it. No startled frown. No embarrassed smile. She doesn't ask for more information. This is why I've gone to Eir, rather than Frigga. Frigga could make me a potion, but Frigga would also make the aggrieved face she's been wearing a lot around me of late.

"Not a sleep aid?" I say.

Eir considers me for a full half minute in silence before jerking a hand to indicate that I should follow. She leads me through more twisting, turning, branching, fire-lit passages to a sad brown healing room with a single white table.

The table is a soulforge.

I freeze on the threshold. I cannot let her use that on me.

Eir says, "First I am going to make sure that the problem is not magic-based. Could you have been hexed, or the target of—"

"No."

Eir switches on the soulforge with a wave of her hand. The instrument hums to life. Bright flame-colored stars rise from the glowing pearlescent surface, rippling into a spectral graph that maps first the spell used to wake it, then residual magic evaporating from Eir's palm.

"There is no need," I protest. "The cause is not magical."

"It's a precaution, Allfather."

A precaution that will show her my face is an illusion.

"I know exactly what happened," I say. "I am merely looking for a solution."

Her unimpressed scowl flattens into irritation.

I take defense in Asgard's machismo. In Odin's fiercest voice I say, "You will stop wasting my time. There are four royal courts in this city all vying for me at once. Before this day is through I must attend six different meets in two different towers plus the royal hall and private council room, inspect Alfr's newest military advancements, make sure Nithavellir doesn't try to cheat their contribution to the war, sign off on Vanaheim's reshipments, deliver a rousing rally-speech to the common people, apologize for a tax-raise upon said people, inspect our dark energy generators, and plan an ill-timed wedding for my absentee mortal-chasing son."

Eir turns off the soulforge. I hide a sigh of relief.

She gives me a hard look. "If magic is involved, any potion I give you may mix with the effects in dangerous ways."

"Fine," I say.

"It may cause you not to sleep at all, or muddle the line between waking and sleeping."

"There is no magic involved."

If Matron Eir had emotions, I get the sense she would be smiling. Instead, Eir studies me as a person removed from the social and political context: with an expression of purely scientific fascination. She says, "I am concerned about prescribing you a sleeping potion if you are having nightmares. You may find yourself trapped in a frightening dream and unable to wake. I would rather treat the root cause with a potion to cauterize your mind or a potion to numb the memories responsible."

"What that they do?"

"The cauterizing potion is for cleaning and sewing wounds shut," Eir recites. "There is pain, but sometimes pain is good. Wounds itch when they heal; this is how we know we are getting better. The other one, the numbing potion, is an anesthetic. No healing is involved."

"Can't I have all three? A potion to make me sleep, and—"

"No."

"What if I take one now and the others later?"

Eir's frown deepens. She folds her arms below her thin bosom. "If you anesthetize what's troubling you, the cauterizing potion will be unable to find a wound and its effect will become generalized. Rather than integrating your healing wound into a control matrix, it will completely rewire your mind."

According to Thor and all of Asgard, that might not be a bad thing. "Cauterizing first?"

"The anesthetic will interrupt the healing process as soon as it is applied."

Damn magic. I say, "How about if I use the anesthetic for now and take an antidote later, when—"

"Antidote?"

I blow out a breath.

Eir withdraws a small booklet and taps the top page with a stylus. The dark, secretive room magnifies her impatience into fractured echoes: _tap ta—pta—ptap-p_.

"Just the sleep-aid," I say. "Thank you."

"My healers will have that prepared by this evening. You should take it no later than moonrise, if you want to be alert for battle in the morning." Without shifting demeanor even the slightest bit, she adds, "those admitted into the Healing Tower are not permitted to visit with others seeking treatment, but I will allow you to see to your wife if you wish. She is in the next wing."

"Frigga? Why is she here?" Delayed, introspective backwash makes me very glad that I stopped thinking of her as _Mother_. Eir might be a social and political null, but she isn't stupid.

The sour-faced Matron puts on a smile. Her smile isn't quite natural, and anyway I can see the strings. "She's fine. It's a routine examination. Everything looks nice and healthy. We're about fourteen weeks along."

"Fourt—" my brain catches up with my mouth, and punches me in the face. "_Child_?"

"Everything's fine. You shouldn't worry so much."

"_Take me to her_."

Eir leads me through winding, dark corridors to the Women's Wing, which is not as harshly gloomy or furtive as the rest of Healing Tower and so naturally a subject for derision. Frigga is in a private room on a scrying table, which makes my skin curdle just to see. My indomitable ex-mother should not be mapped or prodded.

She sits up in alarm when she sees me.

"Thank you, Eir," I dismiss the Matron Healer. "Leave us in private."

"Your Majesties must sound a chime when you wish for escort from the tower," Eir warns, and flits out as one ghost from another.

I shut the door.

Frigga draws in a startled breath.

I can't help but stare at her, sitting there. The make of her gown hides all indication that there is a knot in her belly.

"You are _really_ with child?" I blurt.

Frigga nods.

Another sibling. I am stuck, dumb, by the door. My hand still on the knob. I used to wish for another sibling, long ago. For some reason the picture in my head looks like half-Thor and half-me, which, on second thought, doesn't actually make sense.

Odin Allfather's last child.

Odinsdottir. Or Odinson.

It is a reverent horror, gazing at Frigga and knowing whose life is blooming within her. Did Odin fear for his wife and unborn babe, when he faced me back on Svartalfheim? I'm sure he did. What panic must have seized his chest, after the Einherjar guard vanished and the Unnamed One appeared.

He never understood me at all.

I let go of the doorknob and risk a step farther into the room. "Is it . . ?"

"It's a boy," Frigga says.

Blood rushes from my head until the room swims. "That child will be King?"

"Yes."

"What is going to happen," I ask, meticulously, "when it comes to light that Odin-King has a third child? You made me vow to come out from hiding and stand trial. You must retract that. No one, not even the King, is permitted more than two children."

Frigga shakes her head.

Stubborn, witless honor.

"Thor has abdicated the throne," I point out. "The Nameless Wretch is not a contender. This third—"

"Please." Her face is so pale she's ghost-like. "Don't."

"You know I'm right."

She shakes her head. "You should not have done that. Why did you do that? Odin would not have Unnamed you."

"Yes he would have."

The regret in her eyes pulls ripcord in my heart. Frigga holds out a hand for me. I entwine our fingers.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Release me from my oath." I kneel so she has to look me in the face. "Once we have ensured Thanos will not escape, let me leave the city in secret. You have two children: Thor and—and that one. There is no crime committed here."

Frigga strokes my hand with a thumb. "You vowed to stay until Odin returns. Odin will decide that to do. You are my son; I will not let you break your oath."

"Fourteen weeks?" I repeat, examining her middle. I remember being with child.

"The gown hides it." Frigga smoothes her layered finery.

"Does Thor know about this?"

"No. Just my husband, and Eir. And you."

And select member of the Hall of Judges, I'm thinking. But he didn't tell you that. How else, in this day and age, could you _accidentally_ get with child?

To you it was accidental. Possibly. Unless you're lying to me again. To him, it was planned. He needed a second heir. He'd already written me off; I was slated for life in prison; if Odin-King made an appeal to father a third child Forseti would have given him permission. He must have known you would balk at so publicly disowning me, so he kept it from you. Considerate, wasn't he?

I clasp both of the Queen's hands in mine. "Listen. There must be some legal loophole we can exploit. I can speak with Forseti about it, if you like."

"Do not tell him."

"Wha—?"

"I wish you had consulted me before naming yourself accomplice to the greatest evil our realm has ever known, but I can not let you burn yourself alive." Frigga squeezes my fingers. "Loki. This burden is my own. You will not tell Forseti that this is my second child, you will not tell him that you are dead. I hope this invasion is successful." She grips my hands, glares at me. "I want you to step down a _hero_ when my husband returns. I dreamed last night that you saved the kingdom. I was so proud of you. In that moment, all of Asgard and Vanaheim knew that you had traded your freedom for their lives and they knew that it was _you_, not _Odin_, who stood before them. I want that moment. I want to be there to watch that happen. You saving the entire court as _Loki_, as a hero. I will pray every day that it does, so do _not_ add more wood to your pyre."

I give her a smile, because I have no words for that sentimental rubbish.

Frigga draws me close and plants a dry kiss on my forehead.

I won't embrace her.

She kisses me again, tugs my chin like I'm a child, and summons Eir.

I go through the rest of the day in a terrible humor. I can't shunt Frigga's pregnancy from my mind.

She is with child, I think while the common people applaud my speeches. King Nibelung presents me with a treatise on why Nithavellir's financial and military contribution to our alliance is twelve times lower than agreed upon—ha-ha, isn't that _fine_, Allfather? I pass this suicide note over to Svaldir and Forseti for prompt legal ravaging.

She is with child.

The Vanir delegation is just as bad, albeit in a different direction. I want to drop them into the Void rather than listen to one more person ask what it was "the Unnamed Creature" stole from the vault.

I remember being with child.

Children grow faster than should be allowed. Children make even the most invincible hearts mortal. If my death didn't break through Frigga's serene composure, her new son's birth will crack her mask in two. I wish he would go away. I am a ghost inhabiting another person's body. All that's left of my life is filling in for Odin. My reward for success is that he gets the credit.

Queen Daina of Alfheim seems to think the entire war is a joke, which is somehow worse than Asgard's ecstatic hate, Smirna's snide comments about her looming farce of a marriage, or Nibelung trying to wriggle from my hooks. I can't tell if Daina doesn't believe my reasons for a joint invasion, or if she's just being a shit.

Frigga is with child.

Asgard is going to love him, whoever he is. Her new son will be a golden-haired, pink-cheeked glory. Frigga's unborn child replaces me. They will sit out on the balcony in the afternoons when he's finished with his studies. She will read to him now, instead of me. She will teach him how to cultivate life from warm rich dirt. He won't need to care about me one way or the other—I will be long gone by the time he is born. He will be blessedly impervious to my existence. He will be the hope of Asgard.

I wish I could start over as Frigga's new son.


End file.
